


Harriet Evans and the Chamber of Secrets

by themultifandomsb_tch



Series: The Harriet Evans Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, gender swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 23:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themultifandomsb_tch/pseuds/themultifandomsb_tch
Summary: Harriet Evans is a witch. She is in her second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Little does she know that this year will be just as eventful as the last...Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets but everyone is the opposite gender.





	1. The Worst Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mrs. Verona Evans had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from her niece Harriet’s room. 

“Third time this week!” She roared across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!” 

Harriet tried, yet again, to explain. 

“She’s bored,” she said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night—” 

“Do I look stupid?” snarled Aunt Verona, a bit of fried egg dangling from her mouth. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.” She exchanged dark looks with her husband, Peter. 

Harriet tried to argue back but her words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Evans’ daughter, Diana. 

“I want more bacon.” 

“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Uncle Peter, turning misty eyes on his massive daughter. “We must build you up while we’ve got the chance… I don’t like the sound of that school food…” 

“Nonsense, Peter, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings,” said Aunt Verona heartily. “Diana gets enough, don’t you, girl?” 

Diana, who was so large her bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harriet. 

“Pass the frying pan.” 

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harriet irritably. 

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Diana gasped and fell off her chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mr. Evans gave a small scream and clapped his hands to his mouth; Mrs. Evans jumped to her feet, veins throbbing in her temples. 

“I meant ‘please’!” said Harriet quickly. “I didn’t mean—” 

“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered her aunt, spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN OUR HOUSE?” 

“But I—” 

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DIANA!” roared Aunt Verona, pounding the table with her fist. 

“I just—” 

“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!” 

Harriet stared from her purple faced aunt to her pale uncle, who was trying to heave Diana to her feet. 

“All right,” said Harriet, “all right…” 

Aunt Verona sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Harriet closely out of the corners of her small, sharp eyes. 

Ever since Harriet had come home for the summer holidays, Aunt Verona had been treating her like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harriet Evans wasn’t a normal girl. As a matter of fact, she was as not normal as it is possible to be. 

Harriet Evans was a witch—a witch fresh from her first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Evans’ were unhappy to have her back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harriet felt. 

She missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache. She missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, her classes (though perhaps not Prince, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in her four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in her cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks). 

All Harriet’s spellbooks, her wand, robes, cauldron, and top of the line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Aunt Verona the instant w had come home. What did the Evans’ care if Harriet lost her place on the House Quidditch team because she hadn’t practiced all summer? What was it to the Evans’ if Harriet went back to school without any of her homework done? The Evans’ were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Aunt Verona had even padlocked Harriet’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world. 

Harriet looked nothing like the rest of the family. Aunt Verona was large and neckless, with an enormous amount of black hair; Uncle Peter was horse faced and bony; Diana was blond, pink, and porky. Harriet, on the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet black hair that was always untidy. She wore round glasses, and on her forehead was a thin, lightning shaped scar. 

It was this scar that made Harriet so particularly unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of Harriet’s very mysterious past, of the reason she had been left on the Evans’ doorstep eleven years before. 

At the age of one year old, Harriet had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. Harriet’s parents had died in Voldemort’s attack, but Harriet had escaped with her lightning scar, and somehow—nobody understood why Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harriet. 

So Harriet had been brought up by her dead father’s brother and his wife. She had spent ten years with the Evans’, never understanding why she kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Evans’’ story that she had got her scar in the car crash that had killed her parents. 

And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harriet, and the whole story had come out. Harriet had taken up her place at wizard school, where she and her scar were famous… but now the school year was over, and she was back with the Evans’ for the summer, back to being treated like a dog that had rolled in something smelly. 

The Evans’ hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Harriet’s twelfth birthday. Of course, her hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given her a real present, let alone a cake—but to ignore it completely… 

At that moment, Aunt Verona cleared her throat importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.” 

Harriet looked up, hardly daring to believe it. 

“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” said Aunt Verona. 

Harriet went back to her toast. Of course, she thought bitterly, Aunt Verona was talking about the stupid dinner party. She’d been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich manufacturer and his wife were coming to dinner and Aunt Verona was hoping to get a huge order from him (Aunt Verona’s company made packaging). 

“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Aunt Verona. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Peter, you will be—?” 

“In the lounge,” said Uncle Peter promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.” 

“Good, good. And Diana?” 

“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Diana put on a foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” 

“They’ll love her!” cried Uncle Peter rapturously. 

“Excellent, Diana,” said Aunt Verona. Then she rounded on Harriet. “And you?” 

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Harriet tonelessly. 

“Exactly,” said Aunt Verona nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Peter, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen—” 

“I’ll announce dinner,” said Uncle Peter. 

“And, Diana, you’ll say—” 

“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Diana, offering her fat arm to an invisible woman. 

“My perfect little lady!” sniffed Uncle Peter. 

“And you?” said Aunt Verona viciously to Harriet. 

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Harriet dully. 

“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Peter, any ideas?” 

“Verona tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason… Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason…” 

“Perfect… Diana?” 

“How аbout: ‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.’” 

This was too much for both Uncle Peter and Harriet. Uncle Peter burst into tears and hugged his daughter, while Harriet ducked under the table so they wouldn’t see her laughing. 

“And you, girl?” 

Harriet fought to keep her face straight as she emerged. “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” she said. 

“Too right, you will,” said Aunt Verona forcefully. “The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Peter, and I’ll bring the subject around to packages. With any luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the News at Ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow.” 

Harriet couldn’t feel too excited about this. She didn’t think the Evans’ would like her any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive. 

“Right—I’m off into town to pick up the dinner dresses for Diana and me. And you,” she snarled at Harriet. “You stay out of your uncle’s way while he’s cleaning.” 

Harriet left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. She crossed the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under her breath: 

“Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…” 

No cards, no presents, and she would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. She gazed miserably into the hedge. She had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch, Harriet missed her best friends, Ronnie Prewett and Hermes Granger. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing her at all. Neither of them had written to her all summer, even though Ronnie had said she was going to ask Harriet to come and stay. 

Countless times, Harriet had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her to Ronnie and Hermes with a letter, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school. Harriet hadn’t told the Evans’ this; she knew it was only their terror that she might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking her in the cupboard under the stairs with her wand and broomstick. For the first couple of weeks back, Harriet had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under her breath and watching Diana tearing out of the room as fast as her fat legs would carry her. But the long silence from Ronnie and Hermes had made Harriet feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Diana had lost its appeal—and now Ronnie and Hermes had forgotten her birthday. 

What wouldn’t she give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? She’d almost be glad of a sight of her archenemy, Dahlia Black, just to be sure it hadn’t all been a dream… 

Not that her whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Harriet had come face to face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harriet had slipped through Voldemort’s clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Harriet kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes— 

Harriet suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. She had been staring absent mindedly into the hedge—and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves. 

Harriet jumped to her feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn. 

“I know what day it is,” sang Diana, waddling toward her. 

The huge eyes blinked and vanished. 

“What?” said Harriet, not taking her eyes off the spot where they had been. 

“I know what day it is,” Diana repeated, coming right up to her. 

“Well done,” said Harriet. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.” 

“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Diana. “How come you haven’t got any cards? Haven’t you even got friends at that freak place?” 

“Better not let your dad hear you talking about my school,” said Harriet coolly. 

Diana hitched up her trousers, which were slipping down her fat bottom. 

“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” she said suspiciously. 

“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Harriet. 

Diana stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on her fat face. 

“You c-can’t—mum told you you’re not to do m-magic—she said she’ll chuck you out of the house—and you haven’t got anywhere else to go—you haven’t got any friends to take you—” 

“Jiggery pokery!” said Harriet in a fierce voice. “Hocus pocus—squiggly wiggly—” 

“DAAAAAAD!” howled Diana, tripping over her feet as she dashed back toward the house. “DAAAAD! She’s doing you know what!” 

Harriet paid dearly for her moment of fun. As neither Diana nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Uncle Peter knew she hadn’t really done magic, but she still had to duck as he aimed a heavy blow at her head with the soapy frying pan. Then he gave her work to do, with the promise she wouldn’t eat again until she’d finished. 

While Diana lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Harriet cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of her neck. Harriet knew she shouldn’t have risen to Diana’s bait, but Diana had said the very thing Harriet had been thinking herself… maybe she didn’t have any friends at Hogwarts… 

Wish they could see famous Harriet Evans now, she thought savagely as she spread manure on the flower beds, her back aching, sweat running down her face. 

It was half past seven,in the evening when at last, exhausted, she heard Uncle Peter calling him. 

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!” 

Harriet moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven. 

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Uncle Peter, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. He was already wearing a midnight blue suit. 

Harriet washed her hands and bolted down her pitiful supper. The moment she had finished, Uncle Peter whisked away her plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!” 

As she passed the door to the living room, Harriet caught a glimpse of Aunt Verona and Diana in gaudy dresses. She had only just reached the upstairs landing when the door bell rang and Aunt Verona’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs. 

“Remember, girl—one sound—” 

Harriet crossed to her bedroom on tiptoe slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse on her bed. The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.


	2. Dobby’s Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Harriet managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. Harriet knew instantly that this was what had been watching her out of the garden hedge that morning. 

As they stared at each other, Harriet heard Diana’s voice from the hall. 

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?” 

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Harriet noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for armand leg holes. 

“Er—hello,” said Harriet nervously. 

“Harriet Evans!” said the creature in a high pitched voice Harriet was sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, madam… Such an honor it is…” 

“Th-thank you,” said Harriet, edging along the wall and sinking into her desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage. She wanted to ask, “What are you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead she said, “Who are you?” 

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature. 

“Oh—really?” said Harriet. “Er—I don’t want to be rude or anything, but—this isn’t a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom.” 

Uncle Peter’s high, false laugh sounded from the living room. The elf hung his head. 

“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Harriet quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re here?” 

“Oh, yes, madam,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, madam… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…” 

“Sit down,” said Harriet politely, pointing at the bed. 

To her horror, the elf burst into tears—very noisy tears. 

“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never… never ever…” 

Harriet thought she heard the voices downstairs falter. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.” 

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard—like an equal—” 

Harriet, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harriet in an expression of watery adoration. 

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said Harriet, trying to cheer him up. 

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” 

“Don’t—what are you doing?” Harriet hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed—Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage. 

“Dobby had to punish himself, madam,” said the elf, who had gone slightly cross eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, madam…” 

“Your family?” 

“The wizard family Dobby serves, madam… Dobby is a house-elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…” 

“Do they know you’re here?” asked Harriet curiously. 

Dobby shuddered. 

“Oh, no, madam, no… Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, madam. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir—” 

“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?” 

“Dobby doubts it, madam. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, madam. They lets Dobby get on with it, madam. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments…” 

“But why don’t you leave? Escape?” 

“A house-elf must be set free, madam. And the family will never set Dobby free… Dobby will serve the family until he dies, madam…”

Harriet stared. 

“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another four weeks,” she said. “This makes the Evans’ sound almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t I?” 

Almost at once, Harriet wished she hadn’t spoken. Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude. 

“Please,” Harriet whispered frantically, “please be quiet. If the Evans’ hear anything, if they know you’re here—” 

“Harriet Evans asks if she can help Dobby… Dobby has heard of your greatness, madam, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew…” 

Harriet, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, “Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts; that’s Hermes, he—” 

But she stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermes was painful. 

“Harriet Evans is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orblike eyes aglow. “Harriet Evans speaks not of her triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” 

“Voldemort?” said Harriet. 

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, “Ah, speak not the name, madam! Speak not the name!” 

“Sorry” said Harriet quickly. “I know lots of people don’t like it. My friend Ronnie—” 

SheHe stopped again. Thinking about Ronnie was painful, too. 

Dobby leaned toward Harriet, his eyes wide as headlights. 

“Dobby heard tell,” she said hoarsely, “that Harriet Evans met the Dark Lord for a second time just weeks ago… that Harriet Evans escaped yet again.” 

Harriet nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with tears. 

“Ah, madam,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Harriet Evans is valiant and bold! She has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harriet Evans, to warn her, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later… Harriet Evans must not go back to Hogwarts.” 

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Aunt Verona’s voice. 

“W-what?” Harriet stammered. “But I’ve got to go back—term starts on September first. It’s all that’s keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like here. I don’t belong here. I belong in your world—at Hogwarts.” 

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “Harriet Evans must stay where she is safe. She is too great, too good, to lose. If Harriet Evans goes back to Hogwarts, she will be in mortal danger.” 

“Why?” said Harriet in surprise. 

“There is a plot, Harriet Evans. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, madam. Harriet Evans must not put herself in peril. She is too important, madam!” 

“What terrible things?” said Harriet at once. “Who’s plotting them?” 

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall. 

“All right!” cried Harriet, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop him. “You can’t tell me. I understand. But why are you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck her. “Hang on—this hasn’t got anything to do with Vol—sorry—with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod,” she added hastily as Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again. 

Slowly, Dobby shook his head. 

“Not—not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, madam.” 

But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harriet a hint. Harriet, however, was completely lost. 

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?” 

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever. 

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” said Harriet. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, for one thing—you know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?”

Dobby bowed his head. 

“Ariana Dumbledore is the greatest headmistress Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, madam. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, madam”—Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper—“there are powers Dumbledore doesn’t… powers no decent wizard…” 

And before Harriet could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized Harriet’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps. 

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harriet, heart thudding madly, heard Aunt Verona coming into the hall, calling, “Diana must have left her television on again, the little tyke!” 

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harriet, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging herself onto the bed just as the door handle turned. 

“What—the—devil—are—you—doing?” said Aunt Verona through gritted teeth, her face horribly close to Harriet’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke… One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born, girl!” 

She stomped flat footed from the room. 

Shaking, Harriet let Dobby out of the closet. 

“See what it’s like here?” she said. “See why I’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got—well, I think I’ve got friends.” 

“Friends who don’t even write to Harriet Evans?” said Dobby slyly. 

“I expect they’ve just been—wait a minute,” said Harriet, frowning. “How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?” 

Dobby shuffled his feet. 

“Harriet Evans mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best…” 

“Have you been stopping my letters?” 

“Dobby has them here, madam,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harriet’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Harriet could make out Hermes’ neat writing, Ronnie’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid. 

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harriet. 

“Harriet Evans mustn’t be angry… Dobby hoped… if Harriet Evans thought her friends had forgotten her… Harriet Evans might not want to go back to school, madam…” 

Harriet wasn’t listening. She made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of reach. 

“Harriet Evans will have them, madam, if she gives Dobby her word that she will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, madam, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, madam!” 

“No,” said Harriet angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!” 

“Then Harriet Evans no choice,” said the elf sadly. 

Before Harriet could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs. 

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harriet sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. She jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room she heard Aunt Verona saying, “…tell Peter that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. He’s been dying to hear…” Harriet ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt her stomach disappear. 

Uncle Peter’s masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby. 

“No,” croaked Harriet. “Please… they’ll kill me…” 

“Harriet Evans must say she’s not going back to school—” 

“Dobby… please…” 

“Say it, madam…” 

“I can’t—” 

Dobby gave her a tragic look. 

“Then Dobby must do it, madam, for Harriet Evans’ own good.” 

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart stopping crash. Cream splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Aunt Verona burst into the kitchen to find Harriet, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Uncle Peter’s pudding. 

At first, it looked as though Aunt Verona would manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our niece—very disturbed—meeting strangers upsets her, so we kept her upstairs…”) she shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised Harriet she would flay her to within an inch of her life when the Masons had left, and handed her a mop. Uncle Peter dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Harriet, still shaking, started scrubbing the kitchen clean. 

Aunt Verona might still have been able to make her deal—if it hadn’t been for the owl. 

Uncle Peter was just passing around a box of after dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on Mrs. Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Evans’ that his wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke. 

Harriet stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Aunt Verona advanced on her, a demonic glint in her tiny eyes. 

“Read it!” she hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered. “Go on—read it!” 

Harriet took it. It did not contain birthday greetings. 

“Dear Miss Evans, 

We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine. 

As you know, underage witches are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C). 

We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. 

Enjoy your holidays! 

Yours sincerely, 

Marius Hopkirk 

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE 

Ministry of Magic”

Harriet looked up from the letter and gulped. 

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said Aunt Verona, a mad gleam dancing in her eyes. “Forgot to mention it… Slipped your mind, I daresay…” 

She was bearing down on Harriet like a great bulldog, all her teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, girl… I’m locking you up… You’re never going back to that school… never… and if you try and magic yourself out—they’ll expel you!” 

And laughing like a maniac, she dragged Harriet back upstairs. 

Aunt Verona was as bad as his word. The following morning, she paid a man to fit bars on Harriet’s window. She herself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Harriet out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, she was locked in her room around the clock. 

Three days later, the Evans’ were showing no sign of relenting, and Harriet couldn’t see any way out of her situation. She lay on her bed watching the sun sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to her. 

What was the good of magicking herself out of her room if Hogwarts would expel her for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that the Evans’ knew they weren’t going to wake up as fruit bats, she had lost her only weapon. Dobby might have saved Harriet from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, she’d probably starve to death anyway.

The cat flap rattled and Uncle Peter’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the room. Harriet, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off her bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but she drank half of it in one gulp. Then she crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave her a look of deep disgust. 

“It’s no good turning your beak up at it—that’s all we’ve got,” said Harriet grimly. 

She put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than she had been before the soup. 

Supposing she was still alive in another four weeks, what would happen if she didn’t turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why she hadn’t come back? Would they be able to make the Evans’ let her go? 

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind spinning over the same unanswerable questions, Harriet fell into an uneasy sleep. 

She dreamed that she was on show in a zoo, with a card reading UNDERAGE WIZARD attached to her cage. People goggled through the bars at her as she lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. She saw Dobby’s face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, “Harriet Evans is safe there, sir!” and vanished. Then the Evans’ appeared and Diana rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at her. 

“Stop it,” Harriet muttered as the rattling pounded in her sore head. “Leave me alone… cut it out… I’m trying to sleep…” 

She opened her eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the window. And someone was goggling through the bars at her: a frecklefaced, red haired, long nosed someone. 

Ronnie Prewett was outside Harriet’s window.


	3. The Burrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

“Ronnie,” breathed Harriet, creeping to the window and pushing it up so they could talk through the bars. “Ronnie, how did you—? What the—?” 

Harriet’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what she was seeing hit her. Ronnie was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked in midair. Grinning at Harriet from the front seats were Frankie and Georgina, Ronnie’s elder twin sisters. 

“All right, Harriet?” asked Georgina. 

“What’s been going on?” said Ronnie. “Why haven’t you been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then mum came home and said you’d got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles—” 

“It wasn’t me—and how did she know?” 

“She works for the Ministry,” said Ronnie. “You know we’re not supposed to do spells outside school—” 

“You should talk,” said Harriet, staring at the floating car. 

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ronnie. “We’re only borrowing this. It’s mum’s, we didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with—” 

“I told you, I didn’t—but it’ll take too long to explain now—look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the Evans’ have locked me up and won’t let me come back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done in three days, so—” 

“Stop gibbering,” said Ronnie. “We’ve come to take you home with us.” 

“But you can’t magic me out either—” 

“We don’t need to,” said Ronnie, jerking her head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got with me.” 

“Tie that around the bars,” said Frankie, throwing the end of a rope to Harriet. 

“If the Evans’ wake up, I’m dead,” said Harriet as she tied the rope tightly around a bar and Frankie revved up the car. 

“Don’t worry,” said Frankie, “and stand back.” 

Harriet moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to have realized how important this was and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Frankie drove straight up in the air. Harriet ran back to the window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the ground. Panting, Ronnie hoisted them up into the car. Harriet listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Evans’ bedroom.

When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ronnie, Frankie reversed as close as possible to Harriet’s window. 

“Get in,” Ronnie said. 

“But all my Hogwarts stuff—my wand—my broomstick—” 

“Where is it?” 

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t get out of this room—” 

“No problem,” said Georgina from the front passenger seat. “Out of the way, Harriet.” 

Frankie and Georgina climbed catlike through the window into Harriet’s room. You had to hand it to them, thought Harriet, as Georgina took an ordinary hairpin from her pocket and started to pick the lock. 

“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle trick,” said Frankie, “but we feel they’re skills worth learning, even if they are a bit slow.” 

There was a small click and the door swung open. 

“So—we’ll get your trunk—you grab anything you need from your room and hand it out to Ronnie,” whispered Georgina. 

“Watch out for the bottom stair—it creaks,” Harriet whispered back as the twins disappeared onto the dark landing. 

Harriet dashed around her room, collecting her things and passing them out of the window to Ronnie. Then she went to help Frankie and Georgina heave her trunk up the stairs. Harriet heard Aunt Verona cough. 

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the trunk through Harriet’s room to the open window. Frankie climbed back into the car to pull with Ronnie, and Harriet and Georgina pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window. 

Aunt Verona coughed again. 

“A bit more,” panted Frankie, who was pulling from inside the car. “One good push—” 

Harriet and Georgina threw their shoulders against the trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat of the car. 

“Okay, let’s go,” Georgina whispered. 

But as Harriet climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud screech from behind her, followed immediately by the thunder of Aunt Verona’s voice. 

“THAT RUDDY OWL!” 

“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!” 

Harriet tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on—she snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to Ronnie. She was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Aunt Verona hammered on the unlocked door and it crashed open. 

For a split second, Aunt Verona stood framed in the doorway; then she let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harriet, grabbing her by the ankle. 

Ronnie, Frankie, and Georgina seized Harriet’s arms and pulled as hard as they could. 

“Peter!” roared Aunt Verona. “She’s getting away! SHE’S GETTING AWAY!” 

But the Prewett’s gave a gigantic tug and Harriet’s leg slid out of Aunt Verona’s grasp—Harriet was in the car—she’d slammed the door shut— 

“Put your foot down, Frankie!” yelled Ronnie, and the car shot suddenly towards the moon. 

Harriet couldn’t believe it—she was free. She rolled down the window, the night air whipping her hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Aunt Verona, Uncle Peter, and Diana were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harriet’s window. 

“See you next summer!” Harriet yelled.

The Prewett’s roared with laughter and Harriet settled back in her seat, grinning from ear to ear.

“Let Hedwig out,” she told Ronnie. “She can fly behind us. She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for ages.” 

Georgina handed the hairpin to Ronnie and, a moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost. 

“So—what’s the story, Harriet?” said Ronnie impatiently. “What’s been happening?” 

Harriet told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Harriet and the fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when she had finished. 

“Very fishy,” said Frankie finally. 

“Definitely dodgy,” agreed Georgina. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this stuff?” 

“I don’t think he could,” said Harriet. “I told you, every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.” 

She saw Frankie and Georgina look at each other. 

“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harriet. 

“Well,” said Frankie, “put it this way—house-elves have got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t usually use it without their master’s permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?” 

“Yes,” said Harriet and Ronnie together, instantly. 

“Dahlia Black,” Harriet explained. “She hates me.” 

“Dahlia Black?” said Georgina, turning around. “Not Luanna Black’s son?” 

“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said Harriet. “Why?” 

“I’ve heard Dad talking about her,” said Georgina. “She was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.” 

“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Frankie, craning around to look at Harriet, “Luanna Black came back saying she’d never meant any of it. Load of dung—mum reckons she was right in You-Know-Who’s inner circle.” 

Harriet had heard these rumors about Black’s family before, and they didn’t surprise her at all. Dahlia Black made Diana Evans look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy… 

“I don’t know whether the Black’s own a house-elf…” said Harriet. 

“Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they’ll be rich,” said Frankie. 

“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,” said Georgina. “But all we’ve got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in our house…” 

Harriet was silent. Judging by the fact that Dahlia Black usually had the best of everything, her family was rolling in wizard gold; she could just see Black strutting around a large manor house. Sending the family servant to stop Harriet from going back to Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing Black would do. Had Harriet been stupid to take Dobby seriously? 

“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ronnie. “I was getting really worried when you didn’t answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first—” 

“Who’s Errol?” 

“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hercules—” 

“Who?” 

“The owl mum and dad bought Penelope when she was made prefect,” said Frankie from the front. 

“But Penelope wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ronnie. “Said she needed him.” 

“Penelope’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said Georgina, frowning. “And she has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in her room… I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge… You’re driving too far west, Frankie,” she added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Frankie twiddled the steering wheel.

“So, does your mum know you’ve got the car?” said Harriet, guessing the answer. 

“Er, no,” said Ronnie, “she had to work tonight. Hopefully we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without dad noticing we flew it.” 

“What does your mum do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?” 

“She works in the most boring department,” said Ronnie. “The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.” 

“The what?” 

“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare—mum was working overtime for weeks.” 

“What happened?” 

“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Mum was going frantic—it’s only her and an old warlock called Perkins in the office—and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up—” 

“But your mum—this car—” 

Frankie laughed. “Yeah, mum’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. She takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If she raided our house she’d have to put herself under arrest. It drives dad mad.” 

“That’s the main road,” said Georgina, peering down through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten minutes… Just as well, it’s getting light…” 

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. 

Frankie brought the car lower, and Harriet saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees. 

“We’re a little way outside the village,” said Georgina. “Ottery St. Catchpole.” 

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees. 

“Touchdown!” said Frankie as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harriet looked out for the first time at Ronnie’s house. 

It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which, Harriet reminded herself, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, THE BURROW. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard. 

“It’s not much,” said Ronnie. 

“It’s wonderful,” said Harriet happily, thinking of Privet Drive. 

They got out of the car. 

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Frankie, “and wait for dad to call us for breakfast. Then, Ronnie, you come bounding downstairs going, ‘dad, look who turned up in the night!’ and he’ll be all pleased to see Harriet and no one need ever know we flew the car.” 

“Right,” said Ronnie. “Come on, Harriet, I sleep at the—” 

Ronnie had gone a nasty greenish color, her eyes fixed on the house. The other three wheeled around. 

Mr. Prewett was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind faced man, it was remarkable how much he looked like a saber toothed tiger. 

“Ah,” said Frankie. 

“Oh, dear,” said Georgina. 

Mr. Prewett came to a halt in front of them, his hands on his hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. He was wearing a lime green apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket. 

“So,” he said. 

“Morning, dad,” said Georgina, in what she clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice. 

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mr. Prewett in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, dad, but see, we had to—” 

All three of Mr. Prewett’s daughters were taller than he was, but they cowered as his rage broke over them. 

“Beds empty! No note! Car gone—could have crashed—out of my mind with worry—did you care?—never, as long as I’ve lived—you wait until your mother gets home, we never had trouble like this from Beth or Charlie or Penelope—” 

“Perfect Penelope,” muttered Frankie. 

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PENELOPE’S BOOK!” yelled Mr. Prewett, prodding a finger in Frankie’s chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your mother her job—” 

It seemed to go on for hours. Mr. Prewett had shouted himself hoarse before he turned on Harriet, who backed away. 

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harriet, dear,” he said. “Come in and have some breakfast.” 

He turned and walked back into the house and Harriet, after a nervous glance at Ronnie, who nodded encouragingly, followed him. 

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harriet sat down on the edge of her seat, looking around. She had never been in a wizard house before. 

The clock on the wall opposite her had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You’re late. Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One Minute Feasts—It’s Magic! And unless Harriet’s ears were deceiving her, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.” 

Mr. Prewett was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at his daughters as he threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then he muttered things like “don’t know what you were thinking of,” and “never would have believed it.” 

“I don’t blame you, dear,” he assured Harriet, tipping eight or nine sausages onto her plate. “Arlene and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you hadn’t written back to Ronnie by Friday. But really,” (he was now adding three fried eggs to her plate) “flying an illegal car halfway across the country—anyone could have seen you—” 

He flicked his wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background. 

“It was cloudy, dad!” said Frankie. 

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mr. Prewett snapped. 

“They were starving her, dad!” said Georgina. 

“And you!” said Mr. Prewett, but it was with a slightly softened expression that he started cutting Harriet bread and buttering it for her. 

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again. 

“Jerry,” said Ronnie in an undertone to Harriet. “My brother. He’s been talking about you all summer.” 

“Yeah, he’ll be wanting your autograph, Harriet,” Frankie said with a grin, but she caught her father’s eye and bent her face over her plate without another word. Nothing more was said until all four plates were clean, which took a surprisingly short time. 

“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Frankie, setting down her knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and—” 

“You will not,” snapped Mr. Prewett. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again—” 

“Oh, dad—” 

“And you two,” he said, glaring at Ronnie and Frankie. “You can go up to bed, dear,” he added to Harriet. “You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car—”

But Harriet, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help Ronnie. I’ve never seen a de-gnoming—” 

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” said Mr. Prewett. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject—” 

And he pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece. Georgina groaned. 

“Dad, we know how to de-gnome a garden—” 

Harriet looked at the cover of Mr. Prewett’s book. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words Gillian Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests. There was a big photograph on the front of a very goodlooking witch with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the photograph was moving; the witch, who Harriet supposed was Gillian Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mr. Prewett beamed down at her. 

“Oh, she is marvelous,” he said. “She knows her household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book…” 

“Dad fancies her,” said Frankie, in a very audible whisper. 

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Frankie,” said Mr. Prewett, his cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it.” 

Yawning and grumbling, the Prewett’s slouched outside with Harriet behind them. The garden was large, and in Harriet’s eyes, exactly what a garden should be. The Evans’ wouldn’t have liked it—there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Harriet had never seen spilling from every flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs. 

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harriet told Ronnie as they crossed the lawn. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” said Ronnie, bent double with her head in a peony bush, “like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods…” 

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ronnie straightened up. “This is a gnome,” she said grimly. 

“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome. 

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ronnie held it at arm’s length as it kicked out at her with its horny little feet; she grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down. 

“This is what you have to do,” she said. She raised the gnome above her head (“Gerroff me!”) and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shocked look on Harriet’s face, Ronnie added, “It doesn’t hurt them—you’ve just got to make them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.” 

She let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in the field over the hedge. 

“Pitiful,” said Frankie. “I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.” 

Harriet learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. She decided just to drop the first one she caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing weakness, sank its razor sharp teeth into Harriet’s finger and she had a hard job shaking it off—until— 

“Wow, Harriet - that must’ve been fifty feet…” 

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes. 

“See, they’re not too bright,” said Georgina, seizing five or six gnomes at once. “The moment they know the de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look. You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay put.” 

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched. 

“They’ll be back,” said Ronnie as they watched the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here… mum’s too soft with them; she thinks they’re funny…”

Just then, the front door slammed. 

“She’s back!” said Georgina. “Mum’s home!” 

They hurried through the garden and back into the house. 

Mrs. Prewett was slumped in a kitchen chair with her glasses off and her eyes closed. She was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair she had was as red as any of her children’s. She was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn. 

“What a night,” she mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat down around her. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned…” 

Mrs. Prewett took a long gulp of tea and sighed. 

“Find anything, mum?” said Frankie eagerly. 

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle,” yawned Mrs. Prewett. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though. Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness…” 

“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” said Georgina. 

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mrs. Prewett. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it… Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking—they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face… But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe—” 

“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?” 

Mr. Prewett had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mrs. Prewett’s eyes jerked open. She stared guiltily at her husband. 

“C-cars, Michael, dear?” 

“Yes, Arlene, cars,” said Mr. Prewett, his eyes flashing. “Imagine a witch buying a rusty old car and telling her husband all she wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really she was enchanting it to make it fly.” 

Mrs. Prewett blinked. 

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that she would be quite within the law to do that, even if—er—she maybe would have done better to, um, tell her husband the truth… There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find… As long as she wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn’t—” 

“Arlene Prewett, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!” shouted Mr. Prewett. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harriet arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!” 

“Harriet?” said Mrs. Prewett blankly. “Harriet who?” 

She looked around, saw Harriet, and jumped. 

“Good lord, is it Harriet Evans? Very pleased to meet you, Ronnie’s told us so much about—” 

“Your daughters flew that car to Harriet’s house and back last night!” shouted Mr. Prewett. “What have you got to say about that, eh?” 

“Did you really?” said Mrs. Prewett eagerly. “Did it go all right? I—I mean,” she faltered as sparks flew from Mr. Prewett’s eyes, “that—that was very wrong, girls—very wrong indeed…” 

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ronnie muttered to Harriet as Mr. Prewett swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.” 

They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harriet just caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at her before it closed with a snap. 

“Jerry,” said Ronnie . “You don’t know how weird it is for him to be this shy. He never shuts up normally—”

They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque on it, saying RONNIE’S ROOM. 

Harriet stepped in, her head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ronnie’s room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Harriet realized that Ronnie had covered nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically. 

“Your Quidditch team?” said Harriet. 

“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ronnie, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.” 

Ronnie’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ronnie’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to her fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sun. 

Harriet stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny window. In the field far below she could see a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Prewett’s hedge. Then she turned to look at Ronnie, who was watching her almost nervously, as though waiting for her opinion. 

“It’s a bit small,” said Ronnie quickly. “Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; she’s always banging on the pipes and groaning…” 

But Harriet, grinning widely, said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.” 

Ronnie’s ears went pink.


	4. At Flourish and Blotts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive. The Evans’ liked everything neat and ordered; the Prewett’s house burst with the strange and unexpected. Harriet got a shock the first time she looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted, “Tuck your shirt in, scruffy!” The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Frankie and Georgina’s bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What Harriet found most unusual about life at Ronnie’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like her. 

Mr. Prewett fussed over the state of her socks and tried to force her to eat fourth helpings at every meal. Mrs. Prewett liked Harriet to sit next to her at the dinner table so that she could bombard her with questions about life with Muggles, asking her to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked. 

“Fascinating!” she would say as Harriet talked her through using a telephone. “Ingenious, really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting along without magic.” 

Harriet heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after she had arrived at the Burrow. She and Ronnie went down to breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs. Prewett and Jerry already sitting at the kitchen table. The moment he saw Harriet, Jerry accidentally knocked his porridge bowl to the floor with a loud clatter. Jerry seemed very prone to knocking things over whenever Harriet entered a room. He dived under the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with his face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending she hadn’t noticed this, Harriet sat down and took the toast Mr. Prewett offered her. 

“Letters from school,” said Mrs. Prewett, passing Harriet and Ronnie identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore already knows you’re here, Harriet—doesn’t miss a trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” she added, as Frankie and Georgina ambled in, still in their pajamas. 

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters. Harriet’s told her to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King’s Cross station on September first. There was also a list of the new books she’d need for the coming year. 

“SECOND YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk 

Break with a Banshee by Gillian Lockhart 

Gadding with Ghouls by Gillian Lockhart 

Holidays with Hags by Gillian Lockhart

Travels with Trolls by Gillian Lockhart 

Voyages with Vampires by Gillian Lockhart

Wanderings with Werewolves by Gillian Lockhart

Year with the Yeti by Gillian Lockhart”

Frankie, who had finished her own list, peered over at Harriet’s. 

“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” she said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan—bet it’s a wizard.” 

At this point, Frankie caught her father’s eye and quickly busied herself with the marmalade. 

“That lot won’t come cheap,” said Georgina, with a quick look at her parents. “Lockhart’s books are really expensive…” 

“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mr. Prewett, but he looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot of Jerry’s things secondhand.” 

“Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?” Harriet asked Jerry. 

He nodded, blushing to the roots of his flaming hair, and put his elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Harriet, because just then Ronnie’s elder sister Penelope walked in. She was already dressed, her Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to her sweater vest. 

“Morning, all,” said Penelope briskly. “Lovely day.” 

She sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath her a moulting, gray feather duster—at least, that was what Harriet thought it was, until she saw that it was breathing. 

“Errol!” said Ronnie, taking the limp owl from Penelope and extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally—he’s got Hermes’ answer. I wrote to him saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Evans’.” 

She carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand her on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ronnie lay her on the draining board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then she ripped open Hermes’ letter and read it out loud: 

“Dear Ronnie, and Harriet if you’re there, 

I hope everything went all right and that Harriet is okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get her out, Ronnie, because that would get Harriet into trouble, too. I’ve been really worried and if Harriet is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl because I think another delivery might finish your one off. 

I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course— “

“How can he be?” said Ronnie in horror. “We’re on holiday!” 

“— and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley? 

Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. 

From Hermes. “

“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mr. Prewett, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?” 

Harriet, Ronnie, Frankie, and Georgina were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Prewett’s owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high. 

They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding Harriet’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ronnie’s old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies. 

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Penelope if she wanted to join them, but she had said she was busy. Harriet had only seen Penelope at mealtimes so far; she stayed shut in her room the rest of the time.

“Wish I knew what she was up to,” said Frankie, frowning. “She’s not herself. Her exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and she hardly gloated at all.” 

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” Georgina explained, seeing Harriet’s puzzled look. “Beth got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I don’t think I could stand the shame.” 

Beth was the oldest Prewett sister. She and the next sister, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harriet had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Beth in Egypt working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts. 

“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,” said Georgina after a while. “Five sets of Lockhart books! And Jerry needs robes and a wand and everything…” 

Harriet said nothing. She felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that her parents had left her. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that she had money; you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. She had never mentioned her Gringotts bank account to the Evans’; she didn’t think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold. 

Mr. Prewett woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mr. Prewett took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside. 

“We’re running low, Arlene,” he sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more today… ah well, guests first! After you, Harriet dear!” 

And he offered her the flowerpot. 

Harriet stared at them all watching her. 

“W-what am I supposed to do?” she stammered. 

“She’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ronnie suddenly. “Sorry, Harriet, I forgot.” 

“Never?” said Mrs. Prewett. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?” 

“I went on the Underground—” 

“Really?” said Mrs. Prewett eagerly. “Were there escapators? How exactly—” 

“Not now, Arlene,” said Mr. Prewett. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before—” 

“She’ll be all right, dad,” said Frankie. “Harriet, watch us first.” 

She took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. 

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Frankie, who stepped right into it, shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished. 

“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mr. Prewett told Harriet as Georgina dipped her hand into the flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate…” 

“The right what?” said Harriet nervously as the fire roared and whipped Georgina out of sight, too. 

“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly—” 

“She’ll be fine, Michael, don’t fuss,” said Mrs. Prewett, helping herself to Floo powder, too. 

“But, dear, if she got lost, how would we ever explain to her aunt and uncle?” 

“They wouldn’t mind,” Harriet reassured him. “Diana would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that—” 

“Well… all right… you go after Arlene,” said Mr. Prewett. “Now, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going—” 

“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ronnie advised. 

“And your eyes shut,” said Mr. Prewett. “The soot—” 

“Don’t fidget,” said Ronnie. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace—” 

“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Frankie and Georgina.”

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harriet took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. She took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; she opened her mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash. 

“D-Dia-gon Alley,” she coughed. 

It felt as though she was being sucked down a giant drain. She seemed to be spinning very fast—the roaring in her ears was deafening—she tried to keep her eyes open but the whirl of green flames made her feel sick—something hard knocked her elbow and she tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning—now it felt as though cold hands were slapping her face—squinting through her glasses she saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond—her bacon sandwiches were churning inside her—she closed her eyes again wishing it would stop, and then— 

She fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of her glasses snap. 

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, she got gingerly to her feet, holding her broken glasses up to her eyes. She was quite alone, but where she was, she had no idea. All she could tell was that she was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop—but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list. 

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harriet could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley. 

The sooner she got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harriet made her way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before she’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass—and one of them was the very last person Harriet wanted to meet when she was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Dahlia Black. 

Harriet looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to her left; she shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Black stepped into the shop. 

The woman who followed could only be Dahlia’s mother. She had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mrs. Black crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying, “Touch nothing, Dahlia.” 

Black, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I thought you were going to buy me a present.” 

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said her mother, drumming her fingers on the counter. 

“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” said Black, looking sulky and bad tempered. “Harriet Evans got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so she could play for Gryffindor. She’s not even that good, it’s just because she’s famous… famous for having a stupid scar on her forehead…” Black bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. 

“…everyone thinks she’s so smart, wonderful Evans with her scar and her broomstick—” 

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” said Mrs. Black, with a quelling look at her daughter. “And I would remind you that it is not—prudent—to appear less than fond of Harriet Evans, not when most of our kind regard her as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear—ah, Mr. Borgin.” 

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. 

“Mrs. Black, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted—and young Miss Black, too—charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced—”

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mrs. Black. 

“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face. 

“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” said Mrs. Black, taking a roll of parchment from her inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few—ah—items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…” 

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince nez to his nose and looked down the list. 

“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, madam, surely?” 

Mrs. Black’s lip curled. 

“I have not been visited yet. The name Black still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act—no doubt that fleabitten, Muggle loving fool Arlene Prewett is behind it—” 

Harriet felt a hot surge of anger. 

“and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear—” 

“I understand, madam, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see…” 

“Can I have that?” interrupted Dahlia, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion. 

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mrs. Black’s list and scurrying over to Dahlia. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your daughter has fine taste, madam.” 

“I hope my daughter will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mrs. Black coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, madam, no offense meant—” 

“Though if her grades don’t pick up,” said Mrs. Black, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all she is fit for—” 

“It’s not my fault,” retorted Dahlia. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermes Granger—” 

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a boy of no witch family beat you in every exam,” snapped Mrs. Black. 

“Ha!” said Harriet under her breath, pleased to see Dahlia looking both abashed and angry. 

“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere—” 

“Not with me,” said Mrs. Black, her long nostrils flaring. 

“No, madam, nor with me, madam,” said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow. 

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said Mrs. Black shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today—” 

They started to haggle. Harriet watched nervously as Dahlia drew nearer and nearer to her hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Dahlia paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed—Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date. 

Dahlia turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of her. She walked forward… she stretched out her hand for the handle… 

“Done,” said Mrs. Black at the counter. “Come, Dahlia—” 

Harriet wiped her forehead on her sleeve as Dahlia turned away. 

“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.” The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner. 

“Good day yourself, Mrs. Black, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor…” 

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harriet waited for a minute in case she came back, then, quietly as she could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door. 

Clutching her broken glasses to her face, Harriet stared around. She had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one she’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby looking wizards were watching her from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harriet set off, trying to hold her glasses on straight and hoping against hope she’d be able to find a way out of here.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told her she was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Harriet had never heard of such a place. She supposed she hadn’t spoken clearly enough through her mouthful of ashes back in the Prewett’s fire. Trying to stay calm, she wondered what to do. 

“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in her ear, making her jump. 

An aged witch stood in front of her, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at her, showing mossy teeth. Harriet backed away. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “I’m just—” 

“HARRIET! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?” 

Harriet’s heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle black eyes flashing. 

“Hagrid!” Harriet croaked in relief. “I was lost—Floo powder—” 

Hagrid seized Harriet by the scruff of the neck and pulled her away from the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight. Harriet saw a familiar, snow white marble building in the distance—Gringotts Bank. Hagrid had steered her right into Diagon Alley. 

“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off Harriet so forcefully she nearly knocked her into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary. “Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, I dunno dodgy place, Harriet - don’ want no one ter see yeh down there—” 

“I realized that,” said Harriet, ducking as Hagrid made to brush her off again. “I told you, I was lost—what were you doing down there, anyway?” 

“I was lookin’ fer a Flesh Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” growled Hagrid. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?” 

“I’m staying with the Prewett’s but we got separated,” Harriet explained. “I’ve got to go and find them…” They set off together down the street. 

“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” said Hagrid as Harriet jogged alongside her (she had to take three steps to every stride of Hagrid’s enormous boots). Harriet explained all about Dobby and the Evans’. 

“Lousy Muggles,” growled Hagrid. “If I’d’ve known—” 

“Harriet! Harriet! Over here!” 

Harriet looked up and saw Hermes Granger standing at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. He ran down to meet them, his bushy brown hair flying around him. 

“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid—Oh, it’s wonderful to see you two again—Are you coming into Gringotts, Harriet?” 

“As soon as I’ve found the Prewett’s,” said Harriet. 

“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid said with a grin. 

Harriet and Hermes looked around; sprinting up the crowded street were Ronnie, Frankie, Georgina, Penelope, and Mrs. Prewett. 

“Harriet,” Mrs. Prewett panted. “We hoped you’d only gone one grate too far…” She mopped her glistening forehead. “Michael’s frantic—he’s coming now—” 

“Where did you come out?” Ronnie asked. 

“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly. 

“Excellent!” said Frankie and Georgina together. 

“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ronnie enviously. 

“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid.

Mr. Prewett now came galloping into view, his shopping bag swinging wildly in one hand, Jerry just clinging onto the other. 

“Oh, Harriet—oh, my dear—you could have been anywhere—” 

Gasping for breath he pulled a large clothes brush out of his bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid hadn’t managed to beat away. Mrs. Prewett took Harriet’s glasses, gave them a tap of her wand, and returned them, good as new. 

“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having her hand wrung by Mr. Prewett (“Knockturn Alley! If you hadn’t found her, Hagrid!”). “See yer at Hogwarts!” And she strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street. 

“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harriet asked Ronnie and Hermes as they climbed the Gringotts steps. “Black and her mother.” 

“Did Luanna Black buy anything?” said Mrs. Prewett sharply behind them. 

“No, she was selling—” 

“So she’s worried,” said Mrs. Prewett with grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Luanna Black for something…” 

“You be careful, Arlene,” said Mr. Prewett sharply as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew.” 

“So you don’t think I’m a match for Luanna Black?” said Mrs. Prewett indignantly, but she was distracted almost at once by the sight of Hermes’ parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermes to introduce them. 

“But you’re Muggles!” said Mrs. Prewett delightedly. “We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Michael, look!” She pointed excitedly at the ten pound notes in Mr. Granger’s hand. 

“Meet you back here,” Ronnie said to Hermes as the Prewett’s and Harriet were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin. 

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harriet enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Prewett’s vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than she had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mr. Prewett felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into his wallet. Harriet felt even worse when they reached her vault. She tried to block the contents from view as she hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag. 

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Penelope muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Frankie and Georgina had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Leah Jordan. Mr. Prewett and Jerry were going to a secondhand robe shop. Mrs. Prewett was insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. 

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your school books,” said Mr. Prewett, setting off with Jerry. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” he shouted at the twins’ retreating backs. 

Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Harriet’s pocket was clamoring to be spent, so she bought three large strawberry and peanut butter ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating shop windows. Ronnie gazed longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until Hermes dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Frankie, Georgina, and Leah Jordan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet Start, No Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Penelope, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power.

“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers,” Ronnie read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds fascinating…”

“Go away,” Penelope snapped.

“’Course, she’s very ambitious, Penelope, she’s got it all planned out… she wants to be Minister of Magic…” Ronnie told Harriet and Hermes in an undertone as they left Penelope to it. 

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows:

“GILLIAN LOCKHART 

will be signing copies of her autobiography 

MAGICAL ME 

today 12.30—4.30”

“We can actually meet her!” Hermes squealed. “I mean, she’s written almost the whole booklist!” 

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of wizards around Mr. Prewett’s age. A harassed looking witch stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, gentlemen… Don’t push, there… mind the books, now…” 

Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes squeezed inside. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gillian Lockhart was signing her books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Prewetts were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. 

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mr. Prewett. He sounded breathless and kept patting his hair. “We’ll be able to see her in a minute…” 

Gillian Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of her own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched her eyes; her pointed witches hat was set at a jaunty angle on her wavy hair. 

A short, irritable looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash. 

“Out of the way, there,” she snarled at Ronnie, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet—” 

“Big deal,” said Ronnie, rubbing her foot where the photographer had stepped on it. 

Gillian Lockhart heard her. She looked up. She saw Ronnie and then she saw Harriet. She stared. Then she leapt to her feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be Harriet Evans?” 

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harriet’s arm, and pulled her to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harriet’s face burned as Lockhart shook her hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Prewetts. 

“Nice big smile, Harriet,” said Lockhart, through her own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.” 

When she finally let go of Harriet’s hand, Harriet could hardly feel her fingers. She tried to sidle back over to the Prewetts, but Lockhart threw an arm around her shoulders and clamped her tightly to her side. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time! 

“When young Harriet here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, she only wanted to buy my autobiography—which I shall be happy to present her now, free of charge—” The crowd applauded again. “She had no idea,” Lockhart continued, giving Harriet a little shake that made her glasses slip to the end of her nose, “that she would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. She and her schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!” 

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harriet found herself being presented with the entire works of Gillian Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, she managed to make her way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Jerry was standing next to her new cauldron.

“You have these,” Harriet mumbled to him, tipping the books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own—” 

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Evans?” said a voice Harriet had no trouble recognizing. She straightened up and found herself face to face with Dahlia Black, who was wearing her usual sneer. 

“Famous Harriet Evans,” said Black. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.” 

“Leave her alone, she didn’t want all that!” said Jerry. It was the first time he had spoken in front of Harriet. He was glaring at Black. 

“Evans, you’ve got yourself a boyfriend!” drawled Black. Jerry went scarlet as Ronnie and Hermes fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart’s books. 

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ronnie, looking at Black as if she were something unpleasant on the sole of her shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harriet here, eh?” 

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Prewett,” retorted Black. “I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.” 

Ronnie went as red as Jerry. She dropped her books into the cauldron, too, and started toward Black, but Harriet and Hermes grabbed the back of her jacket. 

“Ronnie!” said Mrs. Prewett, struggling over with Frankie and Georgina. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.” 

“Well, well, well—Arlene Prewett.” 

It was Mrs. Black. She stood with her hand on Dahlia’s shoulder, sneering in just the same way. 

“Luanna,” said Mrs. Prewett, nodding coldly. 

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mrs. Black. “All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?” 

She reached into Jerry’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. 

“Obviously not,” Mrs. Black said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of witch if they don’t even pay you well for it?” 

Mrs. Prewett flushed darker than either Ronnie or Jerry. 

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of witch, Black,” she said. 

“Clearly,” said Mrs. Black, her pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching apprehensively. “The company you keep, Prewett… and I thought your family could sink no lower—” 

There was a thud of metal as Jerry’s cauldron went flying; Mrs. Prewett had thrown herself at Mrs. Black, knocking her backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, “Get her, mum!” from Frankie or Georgina; Mr. Prewett was shrieking, “No, Arlene, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; “Gentlemen, please—please!” cried the assistant, and then, louder than all— 

“Break it up, there, ladies, break it up—” 

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant she had pulled Mrs. Prewett and Mrs. Black apart. Mrs. Prewett had a cut lip and Mrs. Black had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. She was still holding Jerry’s old Transfiguration book. She thrust it at him, her eyes glittering with malice. 

“Here, boy—take your book—it’s the best your mother can give you—” Pulling herself out of Hagrid’s grip she beckoned to Dahlia and swept from the shop. 

“Yeh should’ve ignored her, Arlene,” said Hagrid, almost lifting Mrs. Prewett off her feet as she straightened her robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that—no Black’s worth listenin’ ter—bad blood, that’s what it is—come on now—let’s get outta here.”

The assistant looked as though she wanted to stop them leaving, but she barely came up to Hagrid’s waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mr. Prewett beside himself with fury. 

“A fine example to set for your children… brawling in public… what Gillian Lockhart must’ve thought…” 

“She was pleased,” said Frankie. “Didn’t you hear her as we were leaving? She was asking that bloke from the Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight into his report—said it was all publicity—” 

But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harriet, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side; Mrs. Prewett started to ask them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mr. Prewett’s face. 

Harriet took off her glasses and put them safely in her pocket before helping herself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn’t her favorite way to travel.


	5. The Whomping Willow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

The end of the summer holidays came too quickly for Harriet’s liking. She was looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but her month at the Burrow had been the happiest of her life. It was difficult not to feel jealous of Ronnie when she thought of the Evans’ and the sort of welcome she could expect next time she turned up on Privet Drive. 

On their last evening, Mr. Prewett conjured up a sumptuous dinner that included all of Harriet’s favorite things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding. Frankie and Georgina rounded off the evening with a display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot chocolate and bed. 

It took a long while to get started next morning. They were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to have a great deal to do. Mr. Prewett dashed about in a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people kept colliding on the stairs, half dressed with bits of toast in their hands; and Mrs. Prewett nearly broke her neck, tripping over a stray chicken as she crossed the yard carrying Jerry’s trunk to the car. 

Harriet couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks, two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. She had reckoned, of course, without the special features that Mrs. Prewett had added. 

“Not a word to Michael,” she whispered to Harriet as she opened the trunk and showed her how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily. 

When at last they were all in the car, Mr. Prewett glanced into the back seat, where Harriet, Ronnie, Frankie, Georgina, and Penelope were all sitting comfortably side by side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?” He and Jerry got into the front seat, which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?” 

Mrs. Prewett started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, Harriet turning back for a last look at the house. She barely had time to wonder when she’d see it again when they were back: Georgina had forgotten her box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Frankie could run in for her broomstick. They had almost reached the motorway when Jerry shrieked that he’d left his diary. By the time he had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high. 

Mrs. Prewett glanced at her watch and then at her husband. 

“Michael, dear—” 

“No, Arlene—” 

“No one would see—this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I installed—that’d get us up in the air—then we fly above the clouds. We’d be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser—”

“I said no, Arlene, not in broad daylight—” 

They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mrs. Prewett dashed across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all hurried into the station. 

Harriet had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing. 

“Penelope first,” said Mr. Prewett, looking nervously at the clock overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier. 

Penelope strode briskly forward and vanished. Mrs. Prewett went next; Frankie and Georgina followed. 

“I’ll take Jerry and you two come right after us,” Mr. Prewett told Harriet and Ronnie, grabbing Jerry’s hand and setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone. 

“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ronnie said to Harriet. 

Harriet made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely wedged on top of her trunk and wheeled her trolley around to face the barrier. She felt perfectly confident; this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and— 

CRASH. 

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Ronnie’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Harriet was knocked off her feet, and Hedwig’s cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly; people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes d’you think you’re doing?” 

“Lost control of the trolley,” Harriet gasped, clutching her ribs as she got up. Ronnie ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd. 

“Why can’t we get through?” Harriet hissed to Ronnie. 

“I dunno—” 

Ronnie looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching them. 

“We’re going to miss the train,” Ronnie whispered. “I don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself—” 

Harriet looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. Ten seconds… nine seconds… 

She wheeled her trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all her might. The metal remained solid. 

Three seconds… two seconds… one second… 

“It’s gone,” said Ronnie, sounding stunned. “The train’s left. What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to us? Have you got any Muggle money?” 

Harriet gave a hollow laugh. “The Evans’ haven’t given me pocket money for about six years.” 

Ronnie pressed her ear to the cold barrier. 

“Can’t hear a thing,” she said tensely. “What’re we going to do? I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and Dad to get back to us.” 

They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of Hedwigs’s continuing screeches. 

“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said Harriet. “We’re attracting too much atten—” 

“Harriet!” said Ronnie, her eyes gleaming. “The car!” 

“What about it?” 

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!” 

“But I thought—” 

“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school, haven’t we? And even underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or something of the Restriction of Thingy…” 

“But your Mum and Dad…” said Harriet, pushing against the barrier again in the vain hope that it would give way. “How will they get home?”

“They don’t need the car!” said Ronnie impatiently. “They know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and reappear at home! They only bother with Floo powder and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not allowed to Apparate yet…” 

Harriet’s feeling of panick turned suddenly into excitement. 

“Can you fly it?” 

“No problem,” said Ronnie, wheeling her trolley aroud to face the exit. “C’mon, let’s go, if we hurry we’ll be able to follow the Hogwarts Express—” 

And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side road where the old Ford Anglia was parked. 

Ronnie unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from her wand. They heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the front. 

“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ronnie, starting the ignition with another tap of her wand. Harriet stuck her head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty. 

“Okay,” she said. 

Ronnie pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them vanished—and so did they. Harriet could feel the seat vibrating beneath her, hear the engine, feel her hands on her knees and her glasses on her nose, but for all she could see, she had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars. 

“Let’s go,” said Ronnie’s voice from her right. 

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them. 

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harriet, and Ronnie reappeared. 

“Uh oh,” said Ronnie, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. “It’s faulty—” 

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again. 

“Hold on!” Ronnie yelled, and she slammed her foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy. 

“Now what?” said Harriet, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides. 

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go in,” said Ronnie. 

“Dip back down again—quickly—” 

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground. 

“I can see it!” Harriet yelled. “Right ahead—there!” 

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake. 

“Due north,” said Ronnie, checking the compass on the dashboard. “Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every half hour or so—Hold on—” 

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight. 

It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun. 

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said Ronnie. 

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn’t stop. 

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Harriet, was surely the only way to travel—past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Frankie and Georgina’s jealous faces when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle. 

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Harriet had to admit that some of the fun was wearing off. The toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had nothing to drink. She and Ronnie had pulled off their sweaters, but Harriet’s t-shirt was sticking to the back of her seat and her glasses kept sliding down to the end of her sweaty nose. She had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy ice cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch. Why hadn’t they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters? 

“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ronnie, hours later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for another check on the train?” 

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds. 

Ronnie put her foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as she did so, the engine began to whine. 

Harriet and Ronnie exchanged nervous glances. 

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ronnie. “It’s never been this far before…” 

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. Harriet pulled her sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest. 

“Not far,” said Ronnie, more to the car than to Harriet, “not far now,” and she patted the dashboard nervously. 

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew. 

“There!” Harriet shouted, making Ronnie and Hedwig jump. “Straight ahead!” 

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle. 

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed. 

“Come on,” Ronnie said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on—” 

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. Harriet found herself gripping the edges of her seat very hard as they flew toward the lake. 

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of her window, Harriet saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Ronnie’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again. 

“Come on,” Ronnie muttered. 

They were over the lake—the castle was right ahead—Ronnie put her foot down. 

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely. 

“Uh oh,” said Ronnie, into the silence. 

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall. 

“Noooooo!” Ronnie yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time. 

Ronnie let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled her wand out of her back pocket— 

“STOP! STOP!” she yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them— 

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harriet bellowed, lunging for the steering wheel, but too late— 

CRUNCH. 

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf ball size lump was throbbing on Harriet’s head where she had hit the windshield; and to her right, Ronnie let out a low, despairing groan. 

“Are you okay?” Harriet said urgently.

“My wand,” said Ronnie, in a shaky voice. “Look at my wand—” 

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters. 

Harriet opened her mouth to say she was sure they’d be able to mend it up at the school, but she never even got started. At that very moment, something hit her side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending her lurching sideways into Ronnie, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof. 

“What’s happen—?” 

Ronnie gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harriet looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach. 

“Aaargh!” said Ronnie as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving in— 

“Run for it!” Ronnie shouted, throwing her full weight against her door, but next second she had been knocked backward into Harriet’s lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch. 

“We’re done for!” she moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating—the engine had restarted. 

“Reverse!” Harriet yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach. 

“That,” panted Ronnie, “was close. Well done, car—” 

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harriet felt her seat tip sideways: next thing she knew she was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told her that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily. 

“Come back!” Ronnie yelled after it, brandishing her broken wand. “Mum’ll kill me!” But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust. 

“Can you believe our luck?” said Ronnie miserably, bending down to pick up Scabbers. “Of all the trees we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.” 

She glanced over her shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly. 

“Come on,” said Harriet wearily, “we’d better get up to the school…”

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ronnie, dropping her trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window. “Hey—Harriet—come and look—it’s the Sorting!” 

Harriet hurried over and, together, she and Ronnie peered in at the Great Hall. 

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars. 

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harriet saw a long line of scared looking first years filing into the Hall. Jerry was among them, easily visible because of his vivid Prewett hair. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with his hair slicked back, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers. 

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin). Harriet well remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. For a few horrible seconds she had feared that the hat was going to put her in Slytherin, the house that had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other—but she had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ronnie, Hermes, and the rest of the Prewett’s. Last term, Harriet and Ronnie had helped Gryffindor win the House Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in seven years. 

A very small, mousy haired girl had been called forward to place the hat on her head. Harriet’s eyes wandered past her to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmistress, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, her long silver beard and half moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Harriet saw Gillian Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from her goblet. 

“Hang on…” Harriet muttered to Ronnie. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table… Where’s Prince?” 

Professor Stevanie Prince was Harriet’s least favorite teacher. Harriet also happened to be Prince’s least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by everybody except the students from her own house (Slytherin), Prince taught Potions. 

“Maybe a he’s ill!” said Ronnie hopefully. 

“Maybe she’s left,” said Harriet, “because she missed out on the Defense Against Dark Arts job again!” 

“Or she might have been sacked!” said Ronnie enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates her—” 

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “she’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.” 

Harriet spun around. There, her black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Stevanie Prince. She was a thin woman with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy, shoulder length black hair, and at this moment, she was smiling in a way that told Harriet, she and Ronnie were in very deep trouble. 

“Follow me,” said Prince. 

Not daring even to look at each other, Harriet and Ronnie followed Prince up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Prince led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons. 

“In!” she said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing. 

They entered Prince’s office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Harriet didn’t really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Prince closed the door and turned to look at them.

“So,” she said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Harriet Evans and her faithful sidekick Prewett. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, girls?” 

“No, ma’am , it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it—” 

“Silence!” said Prince coldly. “What have you done with the car?” 

Ronnie gulped. This wasn’t the first time Prince had given Harriet the impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, she understood, as Prince unrolled today’s issue of the Evening Prophet. 

“You were seen,” she hissed, showing them the headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES. She began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower… at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing… Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police… Six or seven Muggles in all. I believe your mother works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” she said, looking up at Ronnie and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear… her own daughter…” 

Harriet felt as though she’d just been walloped in the stomach by one of the mad tree’s larger branches. If anyone found out Mrs. Prewett had bewitched the car… she hadn’t thought of that… 

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Prince went on. 

“That tree did more damage to us than we—” Ronnie blurted out. 

“Silence!” snapped Prince again. “Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the people who do have that happy power. You will wait here.” 

Harriet and Ronnie stared at each other, white faced. Harriet didn’t feel hungry any more. She now felt extremely sick. She tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Prince’s desk. If Prince had gone to fetch Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they were hardly any better off. He might be fairer than Prince, but he was still extremely strict. 

Ten minutes later, Prince returned, and sure enough it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied her. Harriet had seen Professor McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either she had forgotten just how thin his mouth could go, or she had never seen him this angry before. He raised his wand the moment he entered; Harriet and Ronnie both flinched, but he merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted. 

“Sit,” he said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire. 

“Explain,” he said, his glasses glinting ominously. 

Ronnie launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through. 

“…so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on the train.” 

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harriet. 

Harriet gaped at him. Now he said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have done. 

“I—I didn’t think—” 

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.” 

There was a knock on the office door and Prince, now looking happier than ever, opened it. There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore. 

Harriet’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave. She stared down her very crooked nose at them, and Harriet suddenly found herself wishing she and Ronnie were still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow. 

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, “Please explain why you did this.” 

It would have been better if she had shouted. Harriet hated the disappointment in her voice. For some reason, she was unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to her knees. She told Dumbledore everything except that Mrs. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though she and Ronnie had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station. She knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions about the car. When Harriet had finished, she merely continued to peer at them through her spectacles.

“We’ll go and get our stuff,” said Ronnie in a hopeless sort of voice. 

“What are you talking about, Prewett?” barked Professor McGonagall. 

“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ronnie. 

Harriet looked quickly at Dumbledore. 

“Not today, Miss Prewett,” said Dumbledore. “But I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to both your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you.” 

Prince looked as though Christmas had been canceled. She cleared her throat and said, “Professor Dumbledore, these girls have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree—surely acts of this nature—” 

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these girls’ punishments, Stevanie,” said Dumbledore calmly. “They are in his House and are therefore his responsibility.” She turned to Professor McGonagall. “I must go back to the feast, Milton, I’ve got to give out a few notices. Come, Stevanie, there’s a delicious looking custard tart I want to sample.” 

Prince shot a look of pure venom at Harriet and Ronnie as she allowed herself to be swept out of her office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle. 

“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Prewett, you’re bleeding.” 

“Not much,” said Ronnie, hastily wiping the cut over her eye with her sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my brother being Sorted—” 

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor McGonagall. “Your brother is also in Gryffindor.” 

“Oh, good,” said Ronnie. 

“And speaking of Gryffindor—” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but Harriet cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn’t started, so—so Gryffindor shouldn’t really have points taken from it—should it?” she finished, watching her anxiously. 

Professor McGonagall gave her a piercing look, but she was sure he had almost smiled. His mouth looked less thin, anyway. 

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” he said, and Harriet’s heart lightened considerably. “But you will both get a detention.” 

It was better than Harriet had expected. As for Dumbledore’s writing to the Evans’, that was nothing. Harriet knew perfectly well they’d just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t squashed her flat. 

Professor McGonagall raised his wand again and pointed it at Prince’s desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop. 

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitory,” he said. “I must also return to the feast.” 

When the door had closed behind him, Ronnie let out a long, low whistle. 

“I thought we’d had it,” she said, grabbing a sandwich. 

“So did I,” said Harriet, taking one, too. 

“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ronnie thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Frankie and Georgina must’ve flown that car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw them.” She swallowed and took another huge bite. “Why couldn’t we get through the barrier?” 

Harriet shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from now on, though,” she said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the feast…” 

“He didn’t want us showing off,” said Ronnie sagely. “Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by flying car.”

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate kept refilling itself) they rose and left the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over. They walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress. 

“Password?” She said as they approached. 

“Er—” said Harriet. 

They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them and turned to see Hermes dashing toward them. 

“There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors—someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car!” 

“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Harriet assured him. 

“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said Hermes, sounding almost as severe as Professor McGonagall. 

“Skip the lecture,” said Ronnie impatiently, “and tell us the new password.” 

“It’s ‘wattlebird,’” said Hermes impatiently, “but that’s not the point—” 

His words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Harriet and Ronnie inside, leaving Hermes to scramble in after them. 

“Brilliant!” yelled Leah Jordan. “Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years—” 

“Good for you,” said a fifth year Harriet had never spoken to; someone was patting her on the back as though she’d just won a marathon; Frankie and Georgina pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said together, “Why couldn’t we’ve come in the car, eh?” Ronnie was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, but Harriet could see one person who didn’t look happy at all. Penelope was visible over the heads of some excited first years, and she seemed to be trying to get near enough to start telling them off. Harriet nudged Ronnie in the ribs and nodded in Penelope’s direction. Ronnie got the point at once. 

“Got to get upstairs—bit tired,” she said, and the two of them started pushing their way toward the door on the other side of the room, which led to a spiral staircase and the dormitories. 

“Night,” Harriet called back to Hermes, who was wearing a scowl just like Penelope’s. 

They managed to get to the other side of the common room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the top, and at last reached the door of their old dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying SECOND YEARS. They entered the familiar, circular room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet and its high, narrow windows. Their trunks had been brought up for them and stood at the ends of their beds. 

Ronnie grinned guiltily at Harriet. 

“I know I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed that or anything, but—” 

The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second year Gryffindor boys, Sinead Finnigan, Dinah Thomas, and Netta Fortesque. 

“Unbelievable!” beamed Sinead. 

“Cool,” said Dinah. 

“Amazing,” said Netta, awestruck. 

Harriet couldn’t help it. She grinned, too.


	6. Gillian Lockhart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

The next day, however, Harriet barely grinned once. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long house tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harriet and Ronnie sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermes, who had his copy of Voyages with Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was a slight stiffness in the way he said “Morning,” which told Harriet that he was still disapproving of the way they had arrived. Netta Fortesque, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Netta was a round faced and accident prone girl with the worst memory of anyone Harriet had ever met.

“Mail’s due any minute—I think Gran’s sending a few things I forgot.” 

Harriet had only just started her porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Netta’s head and, a second later, something large and gray fell into Hermes’ jug, spraying them all with milk and feathers. 

“Errol!” said Ronnie, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak. 

“Oh, no—” Ronnie gasped. 

“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermes, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger. 

“It’s not that—it’s that.” 

Ronnie was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to Harriet, but Ronnie and Netta were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode. 

“What’s the matter?” said Harriet. 

“He’s—he’s sent me a Howler,” said Ronnie faintly. 

“You’d better open it, Ronnie,” said Netta in a timid whisper. “It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and”—she gulped—“it was horrible.” 

Harriet looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope. 

“What’s a Howler?” She said. 

But Ronnie’s whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners. 

“Open it,” Netta urged. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes—” 

Ronnie stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol’s beak, and slit it open. Netta stuffed her fingers in her ears. A split second later, Harriet knew why. She thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling. 

“—STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR MOTHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE—” 

Mr. Prewett yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ronnie sank so low in her chair that only her crimson forehead could be seen. 

“—LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR MOTHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRIET COULD BOTH HAVE DIED—” 

Harriet had been wondering when her name was going to crop up. She tried very hard to look as though she couldn’t hear the voice that was making her eardrums throb. 

“—ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED—YOUR MOTHER’s FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.” 

A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ronnie’s hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harriet and Ronnie sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again. 

Hermes closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of Ronnie’s head.

“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ronnie, but you—” 

“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ronnie. 

Harriet pushed her porridge away. Her insides were burning with guilt. Mrs. Prewett was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Prewett had done for her over the summer… 

But she had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules. Harriet took hers and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first. 

Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermes seemed to think they had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again. 

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes had only just joined them when he came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gillian Lockhart. Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harriet spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings. 

Professor Sprout was a squat little wizard who wore a patched hat over his flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on his clothes and his fingernails would have made Uncle Peter faint. Gillian Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, her golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming. 

“Oh, hello there!” she called, beaming around at the assembled students. “Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don’t want you running away with the idea that I’m better at Herbology than he is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels…” 

“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all his usual cheerful self. 

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before—greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from his belt and unlocked the door. Harriet caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrellasized flowers dangling from the ceiling. She was about to follow Ronnie and Hermes inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out. 

“Harriet! I’ve been wanting a word—you don’t mind if she’s a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?” 

Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, he did mind, but Lockhart said, “That’s the ticket,” and closed the greenhouse door in his face. 

“Harriet,” said Lockhart, her large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as she shook her head. “Harriet, Harriet, Harriet.” 

Completely nonplussed, Harriet said nothing. 

“When I heard—well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself.” 

Harriet had no idea what she was talking about. She was about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d done it. Stood out a mile. Harriet, Harriet, Harriet.” 

It was remarkable how she could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when she wasn’t talking. 

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said Lockhart. “Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do it again.” 

“Oh, no, Professor, see—” 

“Harriet, Harriet, Harriet,” said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping her shoulder. “I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste—and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head—but see here, young woman, you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for her, she’s an internationally famous witch already!’ But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” She glanced at the lightning scar on Harriet’s forehead. “I know, I know—it’s not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award five times in a row, as I have—but it’s a start, Harriet, it’s a start.”

She gave Harriet a hearty wink and strode off. Harriet stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering she was supposed to be in the greenhouse, she opened the door and slid inside. 

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different colored ear muffs were lying on the bench. When Harriet had taken her place between Ronnie and Hermes, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?” 

To nobody’s surprise, Hermes’ hand was first into the air. 

“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” said Hermes, sounding as usual as though he had swallowed the textbook. “It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state.” 

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout. “The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?” 

Hermes’ hand narrowly missed Harriet’s glasses as it shot up again. 

“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” he said promptly. 

“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor Sprout. “Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young.”

He pointed to a row of deep trays as he spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harriet, who didn’t have the slightest idea what Hermes meant by the “cry” of the Mandrake.

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout. 

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t pink and fluffy. 

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs up. Right—earmuffs on.” 

Harriet snapped the earmuffs over her ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over his own ears, rolled up the sleeves of his robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard. 

Harriet let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear. 

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs. 

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off his hands, gave them all the thumbs up, and removed his own earmuffs. 

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won’t kill yet,” he said calmly as though he’d just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. “However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. 

“Four to a tray—there is a large supply of pots here—compost in the sacks over there—and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.” 

He gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as he spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over his shoulder. 

Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes were joined at their tray by a curly haired Hufflepuff boy Harriet knew by sight but had never spoken to. 

“Justine Finch-Fletchley,” she said brightly, shaking Harriet by the hand. “Know who you are, of course, the famous Harriet Evans… And you’re Hermes Granger—always top in everything…” (Hermes beamed as he had his hand shaken too) “and Ronnie Weasley. Wasn’t that your flying car?” Ronnie didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on her mind. 

“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t she?” said Justine happily as they began filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. “Awfully brave woman. Have you read her books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but she stayed cool and—zap—just fantastic. 

“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family…” 

After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harriet spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot. 

By the end of the class, Harriet, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Harriet had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of her head during the summer. She was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all she managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding her wand. 

Ronnie was having far worse problems. She had patched up her wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ronnie tried to transfigure her beetle it engulfed her in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what she was doing, Ronnie accidentally squashed her beetle with her elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased. 

Harriet was relieved to hear the lunch bell. Her brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except her and Ronnie, who was whacking her wand furiously on the desk. 

“Stupid—useless—thing—” 

“Write home for another one,” Harriet suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker. 

“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ronnie, stuffing the now hissing wand into her bag. “It’s your own fault your wand got snapped—” 

They went down to lunch, where Ronnie’s mood was not improved by Hermes showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons he had produced in Transfiguration. 

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harriet, hastily changing the subject. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermes at once. 

“Why,” demanded Ronnie, seizing his schedule, “have you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?” Hermes snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously. 

They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermes sat down on a stone step and buried his nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Harriet and Ronnie stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harriet became aware that she was being closely watched. Looking up, she saw the very small, mousy haired girl she’d seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harriet as though transfixed. She was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harriet looked at her, she went bright red. 

“All right, Harriet? I’m—I’m Colette Creevey,” she said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor, too. D’you think—would it be all right if—can I have a picture?” she said, raising the camera hopefully. 

“A picture?” Harriet repeated blankly. 

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colette Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead” (her eyes raked Harriet’s hairline) “and a girl in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.” Colette drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you”—she looked imploringly at Harriet—“maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?” 

“Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos, Evans?” 

Loud and scathing, Dahlia Black’s voice echoed around the courtyard. She had stopped right behind Colette, flanked, as she always was at Hogwarts, by her large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Everyone line up!” Black roared to the crowd. “Harriet Evan’s giving out signed photos!”

“No, I’m not,” said Harriet angrily, her fists clenching. “Shut up, Black.” 

“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colette, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe’s neck. 

“Jealous?” said Black, who didn’t need to shout anymore: half the courtyard was listening in. “Of what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.” 

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly. 

“Eat slugs, Black,” said Ronnie angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing her knuckles in a menacing way. 

“Be careful, Prewett,” sneered Black. “You don’t want to start any trouble or your Daddy’ll have to come and take you away from school.” She put on a shrill, piercing voice. “If you put another toe out of line—” 

A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this. 

“Prewett would like a signed photo, Evans,” smirked Black. “It’d be worth more than her family’s whole house—” 

Ronnie whipped out her Spellotaped wand, but Hermes shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, “Look out!” 

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gillian Lockhart was striding toward them, her turquoise robes swirling behind her. “Who’s giving out signed photos?” 

Harriet started to speak but she was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around her shoulders and thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet again, Harriet!” 

Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with humiliation, Harriet saw Black slide smirking back into the crowd. 

“Come on then, Miss Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming at Colette. “A double portrait, can’t do better than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.” 

Colette fumbled for her camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes. 

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and she set off back to the castle with Harriet, who was wishing she knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to her side. 

“A word to the wise, Harriet,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. “I covered up for you back there with young Creevey—if she was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much…” 

Deaf to Harriet’s stammers, Lockhart swept her down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase. 

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn’t sensible—looks a tad bigheaded, Harriet, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but”—she gave a little chortle—“I don’t think you’re quite there yet.” 

They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and she let Harriet go at last. Harriet yanked her robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where she busied herself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s books in front of her, so that she could avoid looking at the real thing. 

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ronnie and Hermes sat down on either side of Harriet. 

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face” said Ronnie. “You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Jerry, or they’ll be starting a Harriet Evans fan club.” 

“Shut up,” snapped Harriet. The last thing she needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harriet Evans fan club.” 

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared her throat loudly and silence fell. She reached forward, picked up Netta Fortesque’s copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show her own, winking portrait on the front. 

“Me,” she said, pointing at it and winking as well. “Gillian Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five time winner of Witch Weekly’s MostCharming Smile Award—but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

She waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly. 

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books—well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about—just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in—” 

When she had handed out the test papers she returned to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty minutes—start—now!” Harriet looked down at her paper and read: 

“1. What is Gillian Lockhart’s favorite color? 

2\. What is Gillian Lockhart’s secret ambition? 

3\. What, in your opinion, is Gillian Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date? “

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to: 

“54. When is Gillian Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?”

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class. 

“Tut, tut—hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully—I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non magic peoples—though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!” 

She gave them another roguish wink. Ronnie was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on her face; Sinead Finnigan and Dinah Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermes, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when she mentioned his name. 

“…but Mr. Hermes Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair care potions—good boy! In fact—” she flipped his paper over “—full marks! Where is Mr. Hermes Granger?” 

Hermes raised a trembling hand. 

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so—to business—” 

She bent down behind her desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it. 

“Now—be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.” 

In spite of himself, Harriet leaned around her pile of books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dinah and Sinead had stopped laughing now. Netta was cowering in her front row seat. 

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice. “It might provoke them.” As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover. 

“Yes,” she said dramatically. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.” 

Sinead Finnigan couldn’t control herself. She let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror. 

“Yes?” She smiled at Sinead. 

“Well, they’re not—they’re not very—dangerous, are they?” Sinead choked. 

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Sinead. “Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!” 

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them. 

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what you make of them!” And she opened the cage. 

It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Netta by the ears and lifted her into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Netta was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

“Come on now—round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted. 

She rolled up her sleeves, brandished her wand, and bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!” 

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized her wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under her own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Netta, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way. 

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes, who were almost at the door, and said, “Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage.” She swept past them and shut the door quickly behind her. 

“Can you believe her?” roared Ronnie as one of the remaining pixies bit her painfully on the ear. 

“She just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” said Hermes, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage. 

“Hands on?” said Harriet, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. “Hermes, she didn’t have a clue what she was doing—” 

“Rubbish,” said Hermes. “You’ve read her books—look at all those amazing things she’s done—” 

“She says she’s done,” Ronnie muttered.


	7. Mudbloods and Murmurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Harriet spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever she saw Gillian Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colette Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harriet’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colette a bigger thrill than to say, “All right, Harriet?” six or seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colette,” back, however exasperated Harriet sounded when she said it. 

Hedwig was still angry with Harriet about the disastrous car journey and Ronnie’s wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ronnie’s hand in Charms and hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, Harriet was quite glad to reach the weekend. She, Ronnie, and Hermes were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harriet, however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than she would have liked by Olivia Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 

“Whassamatter?” said Harriet groggily. 

“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!” 

Harriet squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink and gold sky. Now that she was awake, she couldn’t understand how she could have slept through the racket the birds were making. 

“Olivia,” Harriet croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.” 

“Exactly,” said Wood. She was a tall and muscular sixth year and, at the moment, her eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,” said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have started training yet; we’re going to be first off the mark this year—” 

Yawning and shivering slightly, Harriet climbed out of bed and tried to find her Quidditch robes. 

“Good girl,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.”

When she’d found her scarlet team robes and pulled on her cloak for warmth, Harriet scribbled a note to Ronnie explaining where she’d gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room, her Nimbus Two Thousand on her shoulder. She had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind her and Colette Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, her camera swinging madly around her neck and something clutched in her hand. 

“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harriet! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it developed, I wanted to show you—” 

Harriet looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under her nose. 

A moving, black and white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harriet recognized as her own. She was pleased to see that her photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As Harriet watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture. 

“Will you sign it?” said Colette eagerly. 

“No,” said Harriet flatly, glancing around to check that the room was really deserted. “Sorry, Colette, I’m in a hurry—Quidditch practice—” 

She climbed through the portrait hole. 

“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch game before!” 

Colette scrambled through the hole after her. 

“It’ll be really boring,” Harriet said quickly, but Colette ignored her, her face shining with excitement. 

“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you, Harriet? Weren’t you?” said Colette, trotting alongside her. “You must be brilliant. I’ve never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?” 

Harriet didn’t know how to get rid of her. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow. 

“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colette breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?” 

“Yes,” said Harriet heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. “They’re called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Frankie and Georgina Prewett are the Gryffindor Beaters.” 

“And what are the other balls for?” Colette asked, tripping down a couple of steps because she was gazing open mouthed at Harriet. 

“Well, the Quaffle—that’s the biggish red one—is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch—they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.” 

“And the fourth ball—” 

“is the Golden Snitch,” said Harriet, “and it’s very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that’s what the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns their team an extra hundred and fifty points.” 

“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said Colette in awe. 

“Yes,” said Harriet as they left the castle and started across the dewdrenched grass. “And there’s the Keeper, too. They guards the goal posts. That’s it, really.” 

But Colette didn’t stop questioning Harriet all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harriet only shook him off when she reached the changing rooms; Colette called after her in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harriet!” and hurried off to the stands. 

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Frankie and Georgina Prewett were sitting, puffy eyed and tousle haired, next to fourth year Alec Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind him. His fellow Chasers, Cato Bell and Anthony Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.

“There you are, Harriet, what kept you?” said Wood briskly. “Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference…” 

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different coloured inks. She took out her wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about her new tactics, Frankie Prewett’s head drooped right onto Alec Spinnet’s shoulder and she began to snore. 

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one. Harriet sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on. 

“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harriet from a wistful fantasy about what she could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is that clear? Any questions?” 

“I’ve got a question, Olivia,” said Georgina, who had woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?” 

Wood wasn’t pleased. 

“Now, listen here, you lot,” she said, glowering at them all. “We should have won the Quidditch cup last year. We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately—owing to circumstances beyond our control—” 

Harriet shifted guiltily in her seat. She had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years. 

Wood took a moment to regain control of herself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing her. 

“So this year, we train harder than ever before… Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!” Wood shouted, seizing her broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff legged and still yawning, her team followed. 

They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harriet walked onto the field, she saw Ronnie and Hermes sitting in the stands. 

“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ronnie incredulously. 

“Haven’t even started,” said Harriet, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ronnie and Hermes had brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.” 

She mounted her broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped her face, waking her far more effectively than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. She soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Frankie and Georgina. 

“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Frankie as they hurtled around the corner. 

Harriet looked into the stands. Colette was sitting in one of the highest seats, her camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium. 

“Look this way, Harriet! This way!” she cried shrilly. 

“Who’s that?” said Frankie. 

“No idea,” Harriet lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took her as far away as possible from Colette. 

“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as she skimmed through the air toward them. “Why’s that first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. She could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program.” 

“She’s in Gryffindor,” said Harriet quickly. 

“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Olivia,” said Georgina. 

“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily. 

“Because they’re here in person,” said Georgina, pointing. 

Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.

“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked the field for today! We’ll see about this!” 

Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than she meant to in her anger, staggering slightly as she dismounted. Harriet, Frankie, and Georgina followed.

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. “This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!” 

Marcella Flint was even larger than Wood. She had a look of trollish cunning on her face as she replied, “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.” 

Anthony, Alec, and Cato had come over, too. There were no boys on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors. 

“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage. “I booked it!” 

“Ah,” said Flint. “But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape.” 

“I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.” 

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. “Where?” 

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller girl, smirking all over her pale, pointed face. It was Dahlia Black. 

“Aren’t you Luanna Black’s son?” said Frankie, looking at Black with dislike. 

“Funny you should mention Dahlia’s father,” said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. “Let me show you the generous gift she’s made to the Slytherin team.” 

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early morning sun. 

“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of her own. “I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps”—she smiled nastily at Frankie and Georgina, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives—“sweeps the board with them.” 

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Black was smirking so broadly her cold eyes were reduced to slits. 

“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.” Ronnie and Hermes were crossing the grass to see what was going on. 

“What’s happening?” Ronnie asked Harriet. “Why aren’t you playing? And what’s she doing here?” She was looking at Black, taking in her Slytherin Quidditch robes. 

“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Prewett,” said Black, smugly. “Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my mother’s bought our team.”

Ronnie gaped, open mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of her. 

“Good, aren’t they?” said Black smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.” The Slytherin team howled with laughter. 

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermes sharply. “They got in on pure talent.” 

The smug look on Black’s face flickered. 

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” she spat. 

Harriet knew at once that Black had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Black to stop Frankie and Georgina jumping on her, Alec shrieked, “How dare you!”; and Ronnie plunged her hand into her robes, pulled out her wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one, Black!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at Black’s face. 

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ronnie’s wand, hitting her in the stomach and sending her reeling backward onto the grass. 

“Ronnie! Ronnie! Are you all right?” squealed Hermes. 

Ronnie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead she gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of her mouth onto her lap. 

The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto her new broomstick for support. Black was on all fours, banging the ground with her fist. The Gryffindors were gathered around Ronnie, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch her. 

“We’d better get her to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said Harriet to Hermes, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ronnie up by the arms. 

“What happened, Harriet? What happened? Is she ill? But you can cure her, can’t you?” Colette had run down from her seat and was now dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ronnie gave a huge heave and more slugs dribbled down her front. 

“Oooh,” said Colette, fascinated and raising her camera. “Can you hold her still, Harriet?” 

“Get out of the way, Colette!” said Harriet angrily. She and Hermes supported Ronnie out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of the forest. 

“Nearly there, Ronnie,” said Hermes as the gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be all right in a minute—almost there—”

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who emerged. Gillian Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out. 

“Quick, behind here,” Harriet hissed, dragging Ronnie behind a nearby bush. Hermes followed, somewhat reluctantly. 

“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!” Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a copy of my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one—I’ll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good bye!” And she strode away toward the castle. 

Harriet waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ronnie out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front door. They knocked urgently. 

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but her expression brightened when she saw who it was. 

“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me—come in, come in—thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again—” 

Harriet and Hermes supported Ronnie over the threshold into the oneroomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ronnie’s slug problem, which Harriet hastily explained as she lowered Ronnie into a chair. 

“Better out than in,” she said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of her. “Get ’em all up, Ronnie.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it to stop,” said Hermes anxiously, watching Ronnie bend over the basin. “That’s a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand—” 

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. Her boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harriet. 

“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harriet asked, scratching Fang’s ears. 

“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,” growled Hagrid, moving a half plucked rooster off her scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee she banished. If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.” 

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts’ teacher, and Harriet looked at her in surprise. Hermes, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought she was the best woman for the job—”

“She was the on’y woman for the job,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle fudge, while Ronnie coughed squelchily into her basin. “An’ I mean the on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren’t too keen ter take it on, see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed. No one’s lasted long fer a while now. So tell me,” said Hagrid, jerking her head at Ronnie. “Who was she tryin’ ter curse?” 

“Black called Hermes something—it must’ve been really bad, because everyone went wild.” 

“It was bad,” said Ronnie hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Black called him ‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid—” 

Ronnie dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged. 

“She didn’!” she growled at Hermes. 

“She did,” he said. “But I don’t know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course—” 

“It’s about the most insulting thing she could think of,” gasped Ronnie, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born—you know, non magic parents. There are some wizards—like Black’s family—who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what people call pure blood.” She gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into her outstretched hand. She threw it into the basin and continued, “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t make any difference at all. Look at Netta Fortesque—she’s pure blood and she can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.” 

“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermes can’ do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermes go a brilliant shade of magenta. 

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ronnie, wiping her sweaty brow with a shaking hand. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.” She retched and ducked out of sight again. 

“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse her, Ronnie,” said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. ’Spect Luanna Black would’ve come marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed her daughter. Least yer not in trouble.”

Harriet would have pointed out that trouble didn’t come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but she couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle fudge had cemented her jaws together. 

“Harriet,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I haven’t got one?” 

Furious, Harriet wrenched her teeth apart. 

“I have not been giving out signed photos,” she said hotly. “If Lockhart’s still spreading that around—” But then she saw that Hagrid was laughing. 

“I’m only jokin’,” she said, patting Harriet genially on the back and sending her face first into the table. “I knew yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh. Yer more famous than her without tryin’.” 

“Bet she didn’t like that,” said Harriet, sitting up and rubbing her chin. 

“Don’ think she did,” said Hagrid, her eyes twinkling. “An’ then I told her I’d never read one o’ her books an’ she decided ter go. Treacle fudge, Ronnie?” she added as Ronnie reappeared. 

“No thanks,” said Ronnie weakly. “Better not risk it.” 

“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as Harriet and Hermes finished the last of their tea. 

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harriet had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder. 

“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily. “Fer the Halloween feast… should be big enough by then.” 

“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harriet. 

Hagrid looked over her shoulder to check that they were alone. 

“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them—you know—a bit o’ help—” 

Harriet noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin. Harriet had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, she had the strong impression that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic. She had been expelled from Hogwarts in her third year, but Harriet had never found out why—any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear her throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed. 

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermes, halfway between disapproval and amusement. “Well, you’ve done a good job on them.”

“That’s what yer little brother said,” said Hagrid, nodding at Ronnie. “Met him jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid looked sideways at Harriet, her beard twitching. “Said he was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon he was hopin’ he might run inter someone else at my house.” She winked at Harriet. “If yeh ask me, he wouldn’ say no ter a signed—” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Harriet. Ronnie snorted with laughter and the ground was sprayed with slugs. 

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ronnie away from her precious pumpkins. 

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harriet had only had one bit of treacle fudge since dawn, she was keen to go back to school to eat. They said good bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ronnie hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs. 

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are, Evans—Prewett.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern. “You will both do your detentions this evening.” 

“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ronnie, nervously suppressing a burp. 

“You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mrs. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no magic, Prewett—elbow grease.” 

Ronnie gulped. Ardenne Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school. 

“And you, Evans, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer her fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall. 

“Oh no—Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room, too?” said Harriet desperately. 

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising his eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, both of you.” 

Harriet and Ronnie slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermes behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. Harriet didn’t enjoy her shepherd’s pie as much as she’d thought. Both she and Ronnie felt they’d got the worse deal. 

“Filch’ll have me there all night,” said Ronnie heavily. “No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.” 

“I’d swap anytime,” said Harriet hollowly. “I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart’s fan mail… she’ll be a nightmare…” 

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harriet was dragging her feet along the second floor corridor to Lockhart’s office. She gritted her teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at her. 

“Ah, here’s the scallywag!” she said. “Come in, Harriet, come in—” 

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. She had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on her desk. 

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harriet, as though this was a huge treat. “This first one’s to Glenn Gudgeon, bless him—huge fan of mine—” 

The minutes snailed by. Harriet let Lockhart’s voice wash over her, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then she caught a phrase like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harriet,” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that.” 

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching her. Harriet moved her aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley’s address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harriet thought miserably, please let it be nearly time… 

And then she heard something—something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart’s prattle about her fans. 

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice cold venom. 

“Come… come to me… let me rip you… let me tear you… let me kill you…” 

Harriet gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street. 

“What?” she said loudly. 

“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top of the bestseller list! Broke all records!” 

“No,” said Harriet frantically. “That voice!” 

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?” 

“That—that voice that said—didn’t you hear it?” 

Lockhart was looking at Harriet in high astonishment. 

“What are you talking about, Harriet? Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy? Great Scott—look at the time! We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have believed it—the time’s flown, hasn’t it?” 

Harriet didn’t answer. She was straining her ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling her she mustn’t expect a treat like this every time she got detention. Feeling dazed, Harriet left.

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty. Harriet went straight up to the dormitory. Ronnie wasn’t back yet. Harriet pulled on her pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, Ronnie arrived, nursing her right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into the darkened room. 

“My muscles have all seized up,” she groaned, sinking on her bed. “Fourteen times she made me buff up that Quidditch cup before she was satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off… How was it with Lockhart?” 

Keeping her voice low so as not to wake Netta, Delia, and Sinead, Harriet told Ronnie exactly what she had heard. 

“And Lockhart said she couldn’t hear it?” said Ronnie. Harriet could see her frowning in the moonlight. “D’you think she was lying? But I don’t get it—even someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.” 

“I know,” said Harriet, lying back in her four-poster and staring at the canopy above her. “I don’t get it either.”


	8. The Deathday Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Master Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. His Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Jerry Prewett, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Penelope. The steam pouring from under his vivid hair gave the impression that his whole head was on fire. Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Olivia Wood’s enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harriet was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered with mud. 

Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a happy practice session. Frankie and Georgina, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.

As Harriet squelched along the deserted corridor she came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as she was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, “…don’t fulfill their requirements… half an inch, if that…” 

“Hello, Nick,” said Harriet. 

“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harriet could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside. 

“You look troubled, young Evans,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet. 

“So do you,” said Harriet. 

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no importance… It’s not as though I really wanted to join… Thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements.’” 

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face. 

“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, “that getting hit forty five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?” 

“Oh—yes,” said Harriet, who was obviously supposed to agree. 

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However—” Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously: 

“‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.’” 

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away. 

“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harriet! Most people would think that’s good and beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated Podmore.” 

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, “So—what’s bothering you? Anything I can do?”

“No,” said Harriet. “Not unless you know where we can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly—” 

The rest of Harriet’s sentence was drowned out by a high pitched mewling from somewhere near her ankles. She looked down and found herself gazing into a pair of lamp like yellow eyes. It was Mr. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Ardenne Filch, as a sort of deputy in her endless battle against students. 

“You’d better get out of here, Harriet,” said Nick quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood—she’s got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. She’s been cleaning all morning, and if she sees you dripping mud all over the place—” 

“Right,” said Harriet, backing away from the accusing stare of Mr. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect her with her foul cat, Ardenne Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Harriet’s right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rulebreaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around her head, and her nose was unusually purple. 

“Filth!” She shouted, her jowls aquiver, her eyes popping alarmingly as she pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harriet’s Quidditch robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Evans!” 

So Harriet waved a gloomy good bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor. Harriet had never been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harriet could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished. Frankie and Georgina Prewett had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that she was always begging Dumbledore to let her suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling. 

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on her desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment. 

“Dung,” she muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies… frog brains… rat intestines… I’ve had enough of it… make an example… where’s the form… yes…”

She retrieved a large roll of parchment from her desk drawer and stretched it out in front of her, dipping her long black quill into the ink pot. 

“Name… Harriet Evans. Crime…” 

“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harriet. 

“It’s only a bit of mud to you, girl, but to me it’s an extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of her bulbous nose. “Crime… befouling the castle… suggested sentence…” 

Dabbing at her streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harriet who waited with bated breath for her sentence to fall. 

But as Filch lowered her quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil lamp rattle. 

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down her quill in a transport of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I’ll have you!” 

And without a backward glance at Harriet, Filch ran flat footed from the office, Mr. Norris streaking alongside her. 

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress. Harriet didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling grateful for her timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Harriet. 

Thinking that she should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harriet sank into a moth eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart from her half completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn’t on her way back, Harriet picked up the envelope and read: Kwikspell—A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic. 

Intrigued, Harriet flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said:

“Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? There is an answer! 

Kwikspell is an all new, fail safe, quick result, easy learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method! 

Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: “I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!” 

Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says: “My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!” “

Fascinated, Harriet thumbed through the rest of the envelope’s contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean she wasn’t a proper witch? Harriet was just reading “Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling footsteps outside told her Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harriet threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant. 

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” she was saying gleefully to Mr. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet—” 

Her eyes fell on Harriet and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Harriet realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started. 

Filch’s pasty face went brick red. Harriet braced herself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across to her desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer. 

“Have you—did you read—?” she sputtered. 

“No,” Harriet lied quickly. 

Filch’s knobbly hands were twisting together. 

“If I thought you’d read my private—not that it’s mine—for a friend—be that as it may—however—” 

Harriet was staring at her, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. Her eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of her pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn’t help. 

“Very well—go—and don’t breathe a word—not that—however, if you didn’t read—go now, I have to write up Peeves’ report—go—” 

Amazed at her luck, Harriet sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs. To escape from Filch’s office without punishment was probably some kind of school record. 

“Harriet! Harriet! Did it work?” 

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind her, Harriet could see the wreckage of a large black and gold cabinet that appeared to have been dropped from a great height. 

“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,” said Nick eagerly. “Thought it might distract her—” 

“Was that you?” said Harriet gratefully. “Yeah, it worked, I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!” 

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Harriet noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s rejection letter… 

“I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” Harriet said. 

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harriet walked right through her. She wished she hadn’t; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

“But there is something you could do for me,” said Nick excitedly. “Harriet—would I be asking too much—but no, you wouldn’t want—” 

“What is it?” said Harriet. 

“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified. 

“Oh,” said Harriet, not sure whether she should look sorry or happy about this. “Right.” 

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you would attend. Miss Prewett and Mr. Granger would be most welcome, too, of course—but I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?” He watched Harriet on tenterhooks. 

“No,” said Harriet quickly, “I’ll come—” 

“My dear boy! Harriet Evans, at my deathday party! And”—he hesitated, looking excited—“do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?” 

“Of—of course,” said Harriet. 

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at her. 

“A deathday party?” said Hermes keenly when Harriet had changed at last and joined him and Ronnie in the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living people who can say they’ve been to one of those—it’ll be fascinating!” 

“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?” said Ronnie, who was halfway through her Potions homework and grumpy. “Sounds dead depressing to me…” 

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Frankie and Georgina Prewett, trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Frankie had “rescued” the brilliant orange, fire dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people. 

Harriet was at the point of telling Ronnie and Hermes about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The sight of Penelope bellowing herself hoarse at Frankie and Georgina, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from Harriet’s mind.

By the time Halloween arrived, Harriet was regretting her rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment. 

“A promise is a promise,” Hermes reminded Harriet bossily. “You said you’d go to the deathday party.” 

So at seven o’clock, Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons. 

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Harriet shivered and drew her robes tightly around her, she heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard. 

“Is that supposed to be music?” Ronnie whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes. 

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome, welcome… so pleased you could come…” He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside. 

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearlywhite, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer. 

“Shall we have a look around?” Harriet suggested, wanting to warm up her feet. 

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ronnie nervously, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harriet wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

“Oh, no,” said Hermes, stopping abruptly. “Turn back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning Mervin—” 

“Who?” said Harriet as they backtracked quickly. 

“He haunts one of the toilets in the boys’ bathroom on the first floor,” said Hermes. 

“He haunts a toilet?” 

“Yes. It’s been out of order all year because he keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to have a pee with him wailing at you—” 

“Look, food!” said Ronnie. 

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar like icing forming the words, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, died 31st October, 1492. 

Harriet watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon. 

“Can you taste it if you walk though it?” Harriet asked him. 

“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away. 

“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” said Hermes knowledgeably, pinching his nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis. 

“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ronnie. 

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them. 

“Hello, Peeves,” said Harriet cautiously. 

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face. 

“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus. 

“No thanks,” said Hermes. 

“Heard you talking about poor Mervin,” said Peeves, his eyes dancing. “Rude you was about poor Mervin.” He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OY! MERVIN!”

“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell him what I said, he’ll be really upset,” Hermes whispered frantically. “I didn’t mean it, I don’t mind him—er, hello, Mervin.” 

The squat ghost of a boy had glided over. He had the glummest face Harriet had ever seen, half hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles. 

“What?” he said sulkily. 

“How are you, Mervin?” said Hermes in a falsely bright voice. “It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.” 

Mervin sniffed. 

“Mr. Granger was just talking about you—” said Peeves slyly in Mervin’s ear. 

“Just saying—saying—how nice you look tonight,” said Hermes, glaring at Peeves. 

Mervin eyed Hermes suspiciously. 

“You’re making fun of me,” he said, silver tears welling rapidly in his small, see through eyes. 

“No—honestly—didn’t I just say how nice Mervin’s looking?” said Hermes, nudging Harriet and Ronnie painfully in the ribs. 

“Oh, yeah—” 

“She did—” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Mervin gasped, tears now flooding down his face, while Peeves chuckled happily over his shoulder. “D’you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back? Fat Mervin! Ugly Mervin! Miserable, moaning, moping Mervin!” 

“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in his ear. 

Moaning Mervin burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after him, pelting him with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply! Pimply!” 

“Oh, dear,” said Hermes sadly. 

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd. 

“Enjoying yourselves?” 

“Oh, yes,” they lied. 

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. “The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent… It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go and warn the orchestra…” 

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded. 

“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly. 

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Harriet started to clap, too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck. 

“Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in there?” 

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder. 

“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly. 

“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the crowd howled with laughter). 

“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly. 

“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from the floor. “Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say—look at the fellow—” 

“I think,” said Harriet hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, “Nick’s very—frightening and—er—” 

“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head. “Bet he asked you to say that!” 

“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue spotlight. 

“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow…” 

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went sailing past him to loud cheers. 

Harriet was very cold by now, not to mention hungry. 

“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ronnie muttered, her teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance floor. 

“Let’s go,” Harriet agreed. 

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles. 

“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ronnie hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the entrance hall. 

And then Harriet heard it. 

“…rip… tear… kill…” 

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice she had heard in Lockhart’s office.

She stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all her might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway. 

“Harriet, what’re you—?” 

“It’s that voice again—shut up a minute—” 

“…soo hungry… for so long…” 

“Listen!” said Harriet urgently, and Ronnie and Hermes froze, watching her. 

“…kill… time to kill…” 

The voice was growing fainter. Harriet was sure it was moving away—moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped her as she stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter? 

“This way,” she shouted, and she began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harriet sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ronnie and Hermes clattering behind her. 

“Harriet, what’re we—” 

“SHH!” 

Harriet strained her ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, she heard the voice: “…I smell blood… I SMELL BLOOD!” 

Her stomach lurched. “It’s going to kill someone!” she shouted, and ignoring Ronnie’s and Hermes’ bewildered faces, she ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over her own pounding footsteps—Harriet hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ronnie and Hermes panting behind her, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage. 

“Harriet, what was that all about?” said Ronnie, wiping sweat off her face. “I couldn’t hear anything...”

But Hermes gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor. 

“Look!” 

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches. 

“THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HAIR, BEWARE.”

“What’s that thing—hanging underneath?” said Ronnie, a slight quiver in her voice. 

As they edged nearer, Harriet almost slipped—there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ronnie and Hermes grabbed her, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.

Mr. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by his tail from the torch bracket. He was stiff as a board, his eyes wide and staring. 

For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ronnie said, “Let’s get out of here.” 

“Shouldn’t we try and help—” Harriet began awkwardly. 

“Trust me,” said Ronnie. “We don’t want to be found here.” 

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends. 

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight. 

Then someone shouted through the quiet. 

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” 

It was Dahlia Black. She had pushed to the front of the crowd, her cold eyes alive, her usually bloodless face flushed, as she grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.


	9. The Writing on the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?” 

Attracted no doubt by Black’s shout, Ardenne Filch came shouldering her way through the crowd. Then she saw Mr. Norris and fell back, clutching her face in horror. 

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mr. Norris?” she shrieked. 

And her popping eyes fell on Harriet. 

“You!” she screeched. “You! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll—” 

“Ardenne!” 

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, she had swept past Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes and detached Mr. Norris from the torch bracket. 

“Come with me, Ardenne,” she said to Filch. “You, too, Miss Evans, Miss Prewett, Mr. Granger.” 

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. 

“My office is nearest, Headmistress—just upstairs—please feel free—” 

“Thank you, Gillian,” said Dumbledore. 

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Prince.

As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harriet saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on her desk and stood back. Dumbledore lay Mr. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine him. Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. 

The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mr. Norris’s fur. She was looking at him closely through her half moon spectacles, her long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, his eyes narrowed. Prince loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though she was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions. 

“It was definitely a curse that killed him—probably the Transmogrifian Torture—I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very counter curse that would have saved him…” 

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. She was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mr. Norris, her face in her hands. Much as she detested Filch, Harriet couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for her, though not nearly as sorry as she felt for herself: If Dumbledore believed Filch, she would be expelled for sure. 

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under her breath and tapping Mr. Norris with her wand but nothing happened: he continued to look as though he had been recently stuffed. 

“…I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…” 

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as she talked. One of them had forgotten to remove her hair net. 

At last Dumbledore straightened up. 

“He’s not dead, Ardenne,” she said softly. 

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders she had prevented. 

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through her fingers at Mr. Norris. “But why’s he all—all stiff and frozen?” 

“He has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say…”

“Ask her!” shrieked Filch, turning her blotched and tearstained face to Harriet. 

“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “it would take Dark Magic of the most advanced—” 

“She did it, she did it!” Filch spat, her pouchy face purpling. “You saw what she wrote on the wall! She found—in my office—she knows I’m a—I’m a—” Filch’s face worked horribly. “She knows I’m a Squib!” She finished. 

“I never touched Mr. Norris!” Harriet said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at her, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t even know what a Squib is.” 

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “She saw my Kwikspell letter!” 

“If I might speak, Headmistress,” said Prince from the shadows, and Harriet’s sense of foreboding increased; she was sure nothing Prince had to say was going to do her any good. 

“Evans and her friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she said, a slight sneer curling her mouth as though she doubted it. “But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was she in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t she at the Halloween feast?” 

Harriet, Ronnie and Hermes all launched into an explanation about the deathday party. “…there were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there—” 

“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Prince, her black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go up to that corridor?” 

Ronnie and Hermes looked at Harriet. 

“Because—because—” Harriet said, her heart thumping very fast; something told her it would sound very far fetched if she told them she had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but she could hear, “because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” she said. 

“Without any supper?” said Prince, a triumphant smile flickering across her gaunt face. “I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.” 

“We weren’t hungry,” said Ronnie loudly as her stomach gave a huge rumble. 

Prince’s nasty smile widened. 

“I suggest, Headmistress, that Evans is not being entirely truthful,” she said. “It might be a good idea if she were deprived of certain privileges until she is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel she should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until she is ready to be honest.”

“Really, Stevanie,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, “I see no reason to stop the girl playing Quidditch. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Evans has done anything wrong.” 

Dumbledore was giving Harriet a searching look. Her twinkling lightblue gaze made Harriet feel as though she were being X rayed. 

“Innocent until proven guilty, Stevanie,” she said firmly. 

Prince looked furious. 

So did Filch. 

“My cat has been Petrified!” she shrieked, her eyes popping. “I want to see some punishment!” 

“We will be able to cure him, Ardenne,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mr. Norris.” 

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep—” 

“Excuse me,” said Prince icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.” 

There was a very awkward pause. 

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes. 

They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart’s office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. Harriet squinted at her friends’ darkened faces. 

“D’you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?” 

“No,” said Ronnie, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.” 

Something in Ronnie’s voice made Harriet ask, “You do believe me, don’t you?” 

“’Course I do,” said Ronnie quickly. “But—you must admit it’s weird…” 

“I know it’s weird,” said Harriet. “The whole thing’s weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened… What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ronnie slowly. “I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once… might’ve been Beth…” 

“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harriet. 

To her surprise, Ronnie stifled a snigger. 

“Well—it’s not funny really—but as it’s Filch,” she said. “A Squib is someone who was born into a wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch’s trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon she must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why she hates students so much.” Ronnie gave a satisfied smile. “She’s bitter.”

A clock chimed somewhere. 

“Midnight,” said Harriet. “We’d better get to bed before Prince comes along and tries to frame us for something else.” 

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mr. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where he had been attacked, as though she thought the attacker might come back. Harriet had seen her scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, she was skulking redeyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like “breathing loudly’ and “looking happy.” 

Jerry Prewett seemed very disturbed by Mr. Norris’s fate. According to Ronnie, he was a great cat lover. 

“But you haven’t really got to know Mr. Norris,” Ronnie told him bracingly. “Honestly, we’re much better off without him.” Jerry’s lip trembled. “Stuff like this doesn’t often happen at Hogwarts,” Ronnie assured him. “They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have him out of here in no time. I just hope he’s got time to Petrify Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking—” Ronnie added hastily as Jerry blanched. 

The attack had also had an effect on Hermes. It was quite usual for Hermes to spend a lot of time reading, but he was now doing almost nothing else. Nor could Harriet and Ronnie get much response from him when they asked what he was up to, and not until the following Wednesday did they find out. 

Harriet had been held back in Potions, where Prince had made her stay behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, she went upstairs to meet Ronnie in the library, and saw Justine Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff girl from Herbology, coming toward her. Harriet had just opened her mouth to say hello when Justine caught sight of her, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction. 

Harriet found Ronnie at the back of the library, measuring her History of Magic homework. Professor Binns had asked for a three foot long composition on “The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.”

“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short…” said Ronnie furiously, letting go of her parchment, which sprang back into a roll. “And Hermes’ done four feet seven inches and his writing’s tiny.” 

“Where is he?” asked Harriet, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling her own homework. 

“Somewhere over there,” said Ronnie, pointing along the shelves. “Looking for another book. I think he’s trying to read the whole library before Christmas.” Harriet told Ronnie about Justine Finch-Fletchley running away from her. 

“Dunno why you care. I thought she was a bit of an idiot,” said Ronnie, scribbling away, making her writing as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart being so great—” 

Hermes emerged from between the bookshelves. He looked irritable and at last seemed ready to talk to them. 

“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out,” he said, sitting down next to Harriet and Ronnie. “And there’s a two week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.” 

“Why do you want it?” said Harriet. 

“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said Hermes, “to read up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.” 

“What’s that?” said Harriet quickly. 

“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermes, biting his lip. “And I can’t find the story anywhere else—” 

“Hermes, let me read your composition,” said Ronnie desperately, checking her watch. 

“No, I won’t,” said Hermes, suddenly severe. “You’ve had ten days to finish it—” 

“I only need another two inches, come on—” 

The bell rang. Ronnie and Hermes led the way to History of Magic, bickering. 

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn’t noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the staff room fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since. 

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened that had never happened before. Hermes put up his hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed. 

“Mr. —er—?” 

“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets,” said Hermes in a clear voice. 

Dinah Thomas, who had been sitting with her mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of her trance; Leroy Brown’s head came up off his arms and Netta Fortesque’s elbow slipped off her desk. 

Professor Binns blinked. 

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, wheezy voice. “I deal with facts, Mr. Granger, not myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a small noise like chalk sipping and continued, “In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers—” He stuttered to a halt. Hermes’ hand was waving in the air again. 

“Mr. Grant?” 

“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in fact?” 

Professor Binns was looking at him in such amazement, Harriet was sure no student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead. 

“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could argue that, I suppose.” He peered at Hermes as though he had never seen a student properly before. “However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale—” 

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns’s every word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harriet could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest. 

“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see… the Chamber of Secrets… 

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago—the precise date is uncertain—by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.”

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued. 

“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school.” 

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise. 

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. 

“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic.” 

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn’t the usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns’s classes. There was unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed. 

“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.” 

Hermes’ hand was back in the air. 

“Sir—what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?” 

“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor Binns in his dry, reedy voice. 

The class exchanged nervous looks. 

“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and no monster.” 

“But, sir,” said Sinead Finnigan, “if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?”

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the thing—” 

“But, Professor,” piped up Paavan Patil, “you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it—” 

“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic doesn’t mean he can’t, Mr. Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore—” 

“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn’t—” began Dinah Thomas, but Professor Binns had had enough. 

“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!” 

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor. 

“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony,” Ronnie told Harriet and Hermes as they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the end of the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I never knew he started all this pure blood stuff. I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train straight back home…” 

Hermes nodded fervently, but Harriet didn’t say anything. Her stomach had just dropped unpleasantly. 

Harriet had never told Ronnie and Hermes that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting her in Slytherin. She could remember, as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in her ear when she’d placed the hat on her head a year before: You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that… 

But Harriet, who had already heard of Slytherin House’s reputation for turning out Dark wizards, had thought desperately, Not Slytherin! and the hat had said, Oh, well, if you’re sure… better be Gryffindor… 

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colette Creevey went past. 

“Hiya, Harriet!” 

“Hullo, Colette,” said Harriet automatically. 

“Harriet—Harriet—a boy in my class has been saying you’re—”

But Colette was so small she couldn’t fight against the tide of people bearing her toward the Great Hall; they heard her squeak, “See you, Harriet!” and she was gone. 

“What’s a boy in her class saying about you?” Hermes wondered. 

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harriet, her stomach dropping another inch or so as she suddenly remembered the way Justine Finch-Fletchley had run away from her at lunchtime. 

“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ronnie in disgust. 

The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the next staircase without difficulty. 

“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?” Ronnie asked Hermes. 

“I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mr. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked him might not be—well—human.” 

As he spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message “The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened.” 

“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ronnie muttered. 

They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted. 

“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Harriet, dropping her bag and getting to her hands and knees so that she could crawl along, searching for clues. 

“Scorch marks!” she said. “Here—and here—” 

“Come and look at this!” said Hermes. “This is funny…” 

Harriet got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Hermes was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside. 

“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said Hermes wonderingly. 

“No,” said Harriet, “have you, Ronnie? Ronnie?” 

She looked over her shoulder. Ronnie was standing well back and seemed to be fighting the impulse to run. 

“What’s up?” said Harriet. 

“I—don’t—like—spiders,” said Ronnie tensely. 

“I never knew that,” said Hermes, looking at Ronnie in surprise. “You’ve used spiders in Potions loads of times…”

“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ronnie, who was carefully looking anywhere but at the window. “I just don’t like the way they move… 

Hermes giggled. 

“It’s not funny,” said Ronnie, fiercely. “If you must know, when I was three, Frankie turned my—my teddy bear into a dirty great spider because I broke her toy broomstick… You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and…” 

She broke off, shuddering. Hermes was obviously still trying not to laugh. Feeling they had better get off the subject, Harriet said, “Remember all that water on the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s mopped it up.” 

“It was about here,” said Ronnie, recovering herself to walk a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing. “Level with this door.” 

She reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew her hand as though she’d been burned. 

“What’s the matter?” said Harriet. 

“Can’t go in there,” said Ronnie gruffly. “That’s a boys’ toilet.” 

“Oh, Ronnie, there won’t be anyone in there,” said Hermes, standing up and coming over. “That’s Moaning Mervin’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.” 

And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, he opened the door. 

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harriet had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges. 

Hermes put his fingers to his lips and set off toward the end stall. When he reached it he said, “Hello, Mervin, how are you?” 

Harriet and Ronnie went to look. Moaning Mervin was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on his chin. 

“This is a boys’ bathroom,” he said, eyeing Ronnie and Harriet suspiciously. “They’re not boys.” 

“No,” Hermes agreed. “I just wanted to show them how er—nice it is in here.” He waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor. 

“Ask him if he saw anything,” Harriet mouthed at Hermes. 

“What are you whispering?” said Mervin, staring at her. 

“Nothing,” said Harriet quickly. “We wanted to ask—” 

“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!” said Mervin, in a voice choked with tears. “I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead—”

“Mervin, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermes. “Harriet only—”

“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!” howled Mervin. “My life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along ruining my death!” 

“We wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything funny lately,” said Hermes quickly. “Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.” 

“Did you see anyone near here that night?” said Harriet. 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” said Mervin dramatically. “Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m—that I’m “ “Already dead,” said Ronnie helpfully. 

Mervin gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight, although from the direction of his muffled sobs, he had come to rest somewhere in the U bend. 

Harriet and Ronnie stood with their mouths open, but Hermes shrugged wearily and said, “Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Mervin… Come on, let’s go.” 

Harriet had barely closed the door on Mervin’s gurgling sobs when a loud voice made all three of them jump. 

“RONNIE!” 

Penelope Prewett had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, prefect badge agleam, an expression of complete shock on her face. 

“That’s a boys’ bathroom!” she gasped. “What were you—?” 

“Just having a look around,” Ronnie shrugged. “Clues, you know—” Penelope swelled in a manner that reminded Harriet forcefully of Mr. Prewett. 

“Get—away—from—there—” Penelope said, striding toward them and starting to bustle them along, flapping her arms. “Don’t you care what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner—” 

“Why shouldn’t we be here?” said Ronnie hotly, stopping short and glaring at Penelope. “Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!” 

“That’s what I told Jerry,” said Penelope fiercely, “but he still seems to think you’re going to be expelled, I’ve never seen him so upset, crying his eyes out, you might think of him, all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business—” 

“You don’t care about Jerry,” said Ronnie, whose ears were now reddening. “You’re just worried I’m going to mess up your chances of being Head Girl—” 

“Five points from Gryffindor!” Penelope said tersely, fingering his prefect badge. “And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more detective work, or I’ll write to Dad!”

And she strode off, the back of her neck as red as Ronnie’s ears. 

Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes chose seats as far as possible from Penelope in the common room that night. Ronnie was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting her Charms homework. When she reached absently for her wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the parchment. Fuming almost as much as his homework, Ronnie slammed The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harriet’s surprise, Hermes followed suit. 

“Who can it be, though?” he said in a quiet voice, as though continuing a conversation they had just been having. “Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?” 

“Let’s think,” said Ronnie in mock puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?” 

She looked at Hermes. Hermes looked back, unconvinced. 

“If you’re talking about Black—” 

“Of course I am!” said Ronnie. “You heard her—‘You’ll be next, Mudbloods!’—come on, you’ve only got to look at her foul rat face to know it’s her—” 

“Black , the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermes skeptically. 

“Look at her family,” said Harriet, closing her books, too. “The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin; she’s always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin’s descendants. Her mother’s definitely evil enough.” 

“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!” said Ronnie. “Handing it down, father to son, mother to daughter…” 

“Well,” said Hermes cautiously, “I suppose it’s possible…” 

“But how do we prove it?” said Harriet darkly. 

“There might be a way,” said Hermes slowly, dropping his voice still further with a quick glance across the room at Penelope. “Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We’d be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect—” 

“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won’t you?” said Ronnie irritably. 

“All right,” said Hermes coldly. “What we’d need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Black a few questions without her realizing it’s us.” 

“But that’s impossible,” Harriet said as Ronnie laughed. 

“No, it’s not,” said Hermes . “All we’d need would be some Polyjuice Potion.” 

“What’s that?” said Ronnie and Harriet together.

“Prince mentioned it in class a few weeks ago—” 

“D’you think we’ve got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Prince?” muttered Ronnie. 

“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Black would probably tell us anything. She’s probably boasting about it in the Slytherin common room right now, if only we could hear her.” 

“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said Ronnie, frowning. “What if we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever?” 

“It wears off after a while,” said Hermes, waving his hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Prince said it was in a book called Moste Potente Potions and it’s bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library.” 

There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of permission from a teacher. 

“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” said Ronnie, “if we weren’t going to try and make one of the potions.” 

“I think,” said Hermes, “that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance…” 

“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said Ronnie. “They’d have to be really thick…”


	10. The Rogue Bludger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not brought live creatures to class. Instead, she read passages from her books to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic bits. She usually picked Harriet to help her with these reconstructions; so far, Harriet had been forced to play a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with her. 

Harriet was hauled to the front of the class during their very next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf. If she hadn’t had a very good reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, she would have refused to do it. 

“Nice loud howl, Harriet—exactly—and then, if you’ll believe it, I pounced—like this—slammed him to the floor—thus with one hand, I managed to hold him down—with my other, I put my wand to his throat—I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm—he let out a piteous moan—go on, Harriet—higher than that—good—the fur vanished—the fangs shrank—and he turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective—and another village will remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.”

The bell rang and Lockhart got to her feet. 

“Homework—compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!” 

The class began to leave. Harriet returned to the back of the room, where Ronnie and Hermes were waiting. 

“Ready?” Harriet muttered. 

“Wait till everyone’s gone,” said Hermes nervously. “All right…” 

He approached Lockhart’s desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand, Harriet and Ronnie right behind him. 

“Er—Professor Lockhart?” Hermes stammered. “I wanted to—to get this book out of the library. Just for background reading.” He held out the piece of paper, his hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is, it’s in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to sign for it—I’m sure it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about slow acting venoms…” 

“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart, taking the note from Hermes and smiling widely at him. “Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Hermes eagerly. “So clever, the way you trapped that last one with the tea strainer—” 

“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and she pulled out an enormous peacock quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” she said, misreading the revolted look on Ronnie’s face. “I usually save it for book signings.” 

She scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to Hermes. 

“So, Harriet,” said Lockhart, while Hermes folded the note with fumbling fingers and slipped it into his bag. “Tomorrow’s the first Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear you’re a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private training, don’t hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able players…”

Harriet made an indistinct noise in her throat and then hurried off after Ronnie and Hermes. 

“I don’t believe it,” she said as the three of them examined the signature on the note. “She didn’t even look at the book we wanted.” 

“That’s because she’s a brainless git,” said Ronnie. “But who cares, we’ve got what we needed—” 

“She is not a brainless git,” said Hermes shrilly as they half ran toward the library. 

“Just because she said you were the best student of the year—” 

They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the library. Master Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable man who looked like an underfed vulture. 

“Moste Potente Potions?” he repeated suspiciously, trying to take the note from Hermes; but Hermes wouldn’t let go. 

“I was wondering if I could keep it,” he said breathlessly. 

“Oh, come on,” said Ronnie, wrenching it from his grasp and thrusting it at Master Pince. “We’ll get you another autograph. Lockhart’ll sign anything if it stands still long enough.” 

Master Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test. He stalked away between the lofty shelves and returned several minutes later carrying a large and moldy looking book. Hermes put it carefully into his bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty. 

Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Mervin’s out of order bathroom once again. Hermes had overridden Ronnie’s objections by pointing out that it was the last place anyone in their right minds would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy. Moaning Mervin was crying noisily in his stall, but they were ignoring his, and he them. 

Hermes opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and the three of them bent over the damp spotted pages. It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects almost too gruesome to think about, and there were some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a man who seemed to have been turned inside out and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of her head. 

“Here it is,” said Hermes excitedly as he found the page headed The Polyjuice Potion. It was decorated with drawings of people halfway through transforming into other people. Harriet sincerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces.

“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,” said Hermes as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” he murmured, running his finger down the list of ingredients. “Well, they’re easy enough, they’re in the student storecupboard, we can help ourselves… Oooh, look, powdered horn of a Bicorn—don’t know where we’re going to get that—shredded skin of a Boomslang—that’ll be tricky, too and of course a bit of whoever we want to change into.” 

“Excuse me?” said Ronnie sharply. “What d’you mean, a bit of whoever we’re changing into? I’m drinking nothing with Crabbe’s toenails in it—” 

Hermes continued as though he hadn’t heard her. 

“We don’t have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those bits last… 

Ronnie turned, speechless, to Harriet, who had another worry. 

“D’you realize how much we’re going to have to steal, Hermes? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that’s definitely not in the students’ cupboard. What’re we going to do, break into Prince’s private stores? I don’t know if this is a good idea…” 

Hermes shut the book with a snap. 

“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” he said. There were bright pink patches on his cheeks and his eyes were brighter than usual. “I don’t want to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don’t want to find out if it’s Black, I’ll go straight to Master Pince now and hand the book back in—” 

“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be persuading us to break rules,” said Ronnie. “All right, we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?” 

“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harriet as Hermes, looking happier, opened the book again. 

“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty one days… I’d say it’d be ready in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients.” 

“A month?” said Ronnie. “Black could have attacked half the Muggleborns in the school by then!” But Hermes’ eyes narrowed dangerously again, and she added swiftly, “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, so full steam ahead, I say.”

However, while Hermes was checking that the coast was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ronnie muttered to Harriet, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you can just knock Black off her broom tomorrow.” 

Harriet woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. She was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms gold could buy. She had never wanted to beat Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there with her insides churning, she got up, dressed, and went down to breakfast early, where she found the rest of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking uptight and not speaking much. 

As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. Ronnie and Hermes came hurrying over to wish Harriet good luck as she entered the locker rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor robes, then sat down to listen to Wood’s usual pre match pep talk. 

“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” she began. “No point denying it. But we’ve got better people on our brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have, we’ve been flying in all weathers—” (“Too true,” muttered Georgina Prewett. “I haven’t been properly dry since August”) “and we’re going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Black, buy her way onto their team.” Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harriet. 

“It’ll be down to you, Harriet, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Black or die trying, Harriet, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.” 

“So no pressure, Harriet,” said Frankie, winking at her. 

As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard, too. Master Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary. 

“On my whistle,” said Master Hooch. “Three… two… one…” 

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Harriet flew higher than any of them, squinting around for the Snitch.

“All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Black, shooting underneath her as though to show off the speed of her broom. 

Harriet had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward her; she avoided it so narrowly that she felt it ruffle her hair as it passed. 

“Close one, Harriet!” said Georgina, streaking past her with her club in her hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. Harriet saw Georgina give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Alice Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harriet again. 

Harriet dropped quickly to avoid it, and Georgina managed to hit it hard toward Black. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harriet’s head. 

Harriet put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch. She could hear the Bludger whistling along behind her. What was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible… 

Frankie Prewett was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harriet ducked as Frankie swung at the Bludger with all her might; the Bludger was knocked off course. 

“Gotcha!” Frankie yelled happily, but she was wrong; as though it was magnetically attracted to Harriet, the Bludger pelted after her once more and Harriet was forced to fly off at full speed. 

It had started to rain; Harriet felt heavy drops fall onto her face, splattering onto her glasses. She didn’t have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until she heard Leah Jordan, who was commentating, say, “Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero.” 

The Slytherins’ superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing all it could to knock Harriet out of the air. Frankie and Georgina were now flying so close to her on either side that Harriet could see nothing at all except their flailing arms and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let alone catch it. 

“Someone’s—tampered—with—this—Bludger—” Frankie grunted, swinging her bat with all her might at it as it launched a new attack on Harriet. 

“We need time out,” said Georgina, trying to signal to Wood and stop the Bludger breaking Harriet’s nose at the same time. 

Wood had obviously got the message. Master Hooch’s whistle rang out and Harriet, Frankie, and Georgina dived for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger.

“What’s going on?” said Wood as the Gryffindor team huddled together, while Slytherins in the crowd jeered. “We’re being flattened. Frankie, Georgina, where were you when that Bludger stopped Anthony scoring?” 

“We were twenty feet above him, stopping the other Bludger from murdering Harriet, Olivia,” said Georgina angrily. “Someone’s fixed it—it won’t leave Harriet alone. It hasn’t gone for anyone else all game. The Slytherins must have done something to it.” 

“But the Bludgers have been locked in Master Hooch’s office since our last practice, and there was nothing wrong with them then…” said Wood, anxiously. 

Master Hooch was walking toward them. Over his shoulder, Harriet could see the Slytherin team jeering and pointing in her direction. 

“Listen,” said Harriet as he came nearer and nearer, “with you two flying around me all the time the only way I’m going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue one.” 

“Don’t be thick,” said Frankie. “It’ll take your head off.” Wood was looking from Harriet to the Prewetts. 

“Olivia, this is insane,” said Alec Spinnet angrily. “You can’t let Harriet deal with that thing on her own. Let’s ask for an inquiry…” 

“If we stop now, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” said Harriet. “And we’re not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Olivia, tell them to leave me alone!” 

“This is all your fault,” Georgina said angrily to Wood. “‘Get the Snitch or die trying,’ what a stupid thing to tell her!” 

Master Hooch had joined them. 

“Ready to resume play?” he asked Wood. 

Wood looked at the determined look on Harriet’s face. 

“All right,” she said. “Frankie, Georgina, you heard Harriet—leave her alone and let her deal with the Bludger on her own.” 

The rain was falling more heavily now. On Master Hooch’s whistle, Harriet kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind her. Higher and higher Harriet climbed; she looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, she nevertheless kept her eyes wide open, rain was speckling her glasses and ran up her nostrils as she hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. She could hear laughter from the crowd; she knew she must look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn’t change direction as quickly as Harriet could; she began a kind of roller coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goal posts, where Alice Pucey was trying to get past Wood…

A whistling in Harriet’s ear told her the Bludger had just missed her again; she turned right over and sped in the opposite direction. 

“Training for the ballet, Evans?” yelled Black as Harriet was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger, and she fled, the Bludger trailing a few feet behind her; and then, glaring back at Black in hatred, she saw it—the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Black’s left ear—and Black, busy laughing at Harriet, hadn’t seen it. 

For an agonizing moment, Harriet hung in midair, not daring to speed toward Black in case she looked up and saw the Snitch. 

WHAM. 

She had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger had hit her at last, smashed into her elbow, and Harriet felt her arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in her arm, she slid sideways on her rain drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, her right arm dangling useless at her side—the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at her face—Harriet swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in her numb brain: get to Black. 

Through a haze of rain and pain she dived for the shimmering, sneering face below her and saw its eyes widen with fear: Black thought Harriet was attacking her. 

“What the—” she gasped, careening out of Harriet’s way. 

Harriet took her remaining hand off her broom and made a wild snatch; she felt her fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom with her legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as she headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out. 

With a splattering thud she hit the mud and rolled off her broom. Her arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, she heard, as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. She focused on the Snitch clutched in her good hand. 

“Aha,” she said vaguely. “We’ve won.” And she fainted. 

She came around, rain falling on her face, still lying on the field, with someone leaning over her. She saw a glitter of teeth. 

“Oh, no, not you,” she moaned.

“Doesn’t know what she’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Harriet. I’m about to fix your arm.” 

“No!” said Harriet. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks…” 

She tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. She heard a familiar clicking noise nearby. 

“I don’t want a photo of this, Colette,” she said loudly. 

“Lie back, Harriet,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a simple charm I’ve used countless times—” 

“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harriet through clenched teeth. 

“She should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood, who couldn’t help grinning even though her Seeker was injured. “Great capture, Harriet, really spectacular, your best yet, I’d say—”

Through the thicket of legs around her, Harriet spotted Frankie and Georgina Prewett, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight. 

“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up her jade green sleeves. 

“No—don’t—” said Harriet weakly, but Lockhart was twirling her wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harriet’s arm. 

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harriet’s shoulder and spread all the way down to her fingertips. It felt as though her arm was being deflated. She didn’t dare look at what was happening. She had shut her eyes, her face turned away from her arm, but her worst fears were realized as the people above her gasped and Colette Creevey began clicking away madly. Her arm didn’t hurt anymore—nor did it feel remotely like an arm. 

“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harriet, just toddle up to the hospital wing—ah, Miss Prewett, Mr. Granger, would you escort her?—and Master Pomfrey will be able to—er—tidy you up a bit.” 

As Harriet got to her feet, she felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath she looked down at her right side. What she saw nearly made her pass out again. 

Poking out of the end of her robes was what looked like a thick, fleshcolored rubber glove. She tried to move her fingers. Nothing happened. 

Lockhart hadn’t mended Harriet’s bones. She had removed them. 

Master Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased. 

“You should have come straight to me!” he raged, holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend bones in a second—but growing them back—” 

“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Harriet desperately. 

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said Master Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harriet a pair of pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night…” 

Hermes waited outside the curtain drawn around Harriet’s bed while Ronnie helped her into her pajamas. It took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a sleeve. 

“How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermes, eh?” Ronnie called through the curtain as she pulled Harriet’s limp fingers through the cuff. “If Harriet had wanted deboning she would have asked.” 

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermes. “And it doesn’t hurt anymore, does it, Harriet?”

“No,” said Harriet, getting into bed. “But it doesn’t do anything else either.” 

As she swung herself onto the bed, her arm flapped pointlessly. 

Hermes and Master Pomfrey came around the curtain. Master Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled Skele Gro. 

“You’re in for a rough night,” he said, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to her. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.”

So was taking the Skele Gro. It burned Harriet’s mouth and throat as it went down, making her cough and splutter. Still tut tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Master Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ronnie and Hermes to help Harriet gulp down some water. 

“We won, though,” said Ronnie, a grin breaking across her face. “That was some catch you made. Black’s face… she looked ready to kill!” 

“I want to know how she fixed that Bludger,” said Hermes darkly. 

“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask her when we’ve taken the Polyjuice Potion,” said Harriet, sinking back onto her pillows. “I hope it tastes better than this stuff…” 

“If it’s got bits of Slytherins in it? You’ve got to be joking,” said Ronnie. 

The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harriet. “Unbelievable flying, Harriet,” said Georgina. “I’ve just seen Marcella Flint yelling at Black. Something about having the Snitch on top of her head and not noticing. Black didn’t seem too happy.” They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harriet’s bed and were just getting started on what promised to be a good party when Master Pomfrey came storming over, shouting, “This girl needs rest, she’s got thirty three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!” And Harriet was left alone, with nothing to distract her from the stabbing pains in her limp arm. 

Hours and hours later, Harriet woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: her arm now felt full of large splinters. For a second, she thought that was what had woken her. Then, with a thrill of horror, she realized that someone was sponging her forehead in the dark. 

“Get off!” she said loudly, and then, “Dobby!” 

The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harriet through the darkness. A single tear was running down her long, pointed nose.

“Harriet Evans came back to school,” he whispered miserably. “Dobby warned and warned Harriet Evans. Ah ma’am, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why didn’t Harriet Evans go back home when she missed the train?” Harriet heaved herself up on her pillows and pushed Dobby’s sponge away. 

“What’re you doing here?” she said. “And how did you know I missed the train?” 

Dobby’s lip trembled and Harriet was seized by a sudden suspicion. 

“It was you!” she said slowly. “You stopped the barrier from letting us through!” 

“Indeed yes, ma’am,” said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for Harriet Evans and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward”—he showed Harriet ten long, bandaged fingers—”but Dobby didn’t care, ma’am, for he thought Harriet Evans was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harriet Evans would get to school another way!” 

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head. 

“Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harriet Evans was back at Hogwarts, he let his master’s dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, ma’am…” 

Harriet slumped back onto her pillows. 

“You nearly got Ronnie and me expelled,” she said fiercely. “You’d better get lost before my bones come back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.” 

Dobby smiled weakly. 

“Dobby is used to death threats, ma’am. Dobby gets them five times a day at home.” 

He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so pathetic that Harriet felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself. 

“Why d’you wear that thing, Dobby?” she asked curiously. 

“This, ma’am?” said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. “’Tis a mark of the house-elf’s enslavement, ma’am. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present him with clothes, ma’am. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock, ma’am, for then he would be free to leave their house forever.” 

Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, “Harriet Evans must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make—” 

“Your Bludger?” said Harriet, anger rising once more. “What d’you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?” 

“Not kill you, ma’am, never kill you!” said Dobby, shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harriet Evans’ life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here, ma’am! Dobby only wanted Harriet Evans hurt enough to be sent home!”

“Oh, is that all?” said Harriet angrily. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?” 

“Ah, if Harriet Evans only knew!” Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. “If she knew what she means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, ma’am! We house-elves were treated like vermin, ma’am! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, ma’am,” he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. “But mostly, ma’am, life has improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harriet Evans survived, and the Dark Lord’s power was broken, and it was a new dawn, ma’am , and Harriet Evans shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, ma’am… And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harriet Evans stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more—” 

Dobby froze, horror struck, then grabbed Harriet’s water jug from her bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross eyed, muttering, “Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby…” 

“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harriet whispered. “And did you say it’s been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!” 

She seized the elf’s bony wrist as Dobby’s hand inched toward the water jug. “But I’m not Muggle-born—how can I be in danger from the Chamber?” 

“Ah, ma’am, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,” stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harriet Evans must not be here when they happen—go home, Harriet Evans , go home. Harriet Evans must not meddle in this, ma’am, ’tis too dangerous—” 

“Who is it, Dobby?” Harriet said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby’s wrist to stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again. “Who’s opened it? Who opened it last time?” 

“Dobby can’t, ma’am, Dobby can’t, Dobby mustn’t tell!” squealed the elf. “Go home, Harriet Evans, go home!” 

“I’m not going anywhere!” said Harriet fiercely. “One of my best friends is Muggle-born; he’ll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened—”

“Harriet Evans risks her own life for her friends!” moaned Dobby in a kind of miserable ecstasy. “So noble! So valiant! But she must save herself, she must, Harriet Evans must not—” 

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harriet heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside. 

“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Harriet’s fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. She slumped back into bed, her eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer. 

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. She was carrying one end of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed. 

“Get Master Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harriet’s bed out of sight. Harriet lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Master Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over his nightwear. She heard a sharp intake of breath. 

“What happened?”Master Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending over the statue on the bed. 

“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Milton found her on the stairs.” 

“There was a bunch of grapes next to her,” said Professor McGonagall. “We think she was trying to sneak up here to visit Evans.” 

Harriet’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, she raised herself a few inches so she could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of moonlight lay across its staring face. 

It was Colette Creevey. Her eyes were wide and her hands were stuck up in front of her, holding her camera. 

“Petrified?” whispered Master Pomfrey. 

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to think… If Ariana hadn’t been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate—who knows what might have—” 

The three of them stared down at Colette . Then Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the camera out of Colette’s rigid grip. 

“You don’t think she managed to get a picture of her attacker?” said Professor McGonagall eagerly. 

Dumbledore didn’t answer. She opened the back of the camera. 

“Good gracious!” said Master Pomfrey.

A jet of smoke had hissed out of the camera. Harriet, three beds away, caught the acrid smell of burnt plastic. 

“Melted,” said Master Pomfrey wonderingly. “All melted…” 

“What does this mean, Ariana?” Professor McGonagall asked urgently. 

“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open again.” 

Master Pomfrey clapped a hand to his mouth. Professor McGonagall stared at Dumbledore. 

“But, Ariana… surely… who?” 

“The question is not who,” said Dumbledore, her eyes on Colette. “The question is, how…” 

And from what Harriet could see of Professor McGonagall’s shadowy face, he didn’t understand this any better than she did.


	11. The Duelling Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Harriet woke up on Sunday morning to find the dormitory blazing with winter sunlight and her arm reboned but very stiff. She sat up quickly and looked over at Colette’s bed, but it had been blocked from view by the high curtains Harriet had changed behind yesterday. Seeing that she was awake, Master Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then began bending and stretching her arm and fingers. 

“All in order,” he said as she clumsily fed herself porridge left handed. “When you’ve finished eating, you may leave.” 

Harriet dressed as quickly as she could and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower, desperate to tell Ronnie and Hermes about Colette and Dobby, but they weren’t there. Harriet left to look for them, wondering where they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that they weren’t interested in whether she had her bones back or not. 

As Harriet passed the library, Penelope Prewett strolled out of it, looking in far better spirits than last time they’d met. 

“Oh, hello, Harriet,” she said. “Excellent flying yesterday, really excellent. Gryffindor has just taken the lead for the House Cup—you earned fifty points!” 

“You haven’t seen Ronnie or Hermes, have you?” said Harriet. 

“No, I haven’t,” said Penelope, her smile fading. “I hope Ronnie’s not in another boys’ toilet…” 

Harriet forced a laugh, watched Penelope walk out of sight, and then headed straight for Moaning Mevin’s bathroom. She couldn’t see why Ronnie and Hermes would be in there again, but after making sure that neither Filch nor any prefects were around, she opened the door and heard their voices coming from a locked stall.

“It’s me,” she said, closing the door behind her. There was a clunk, a splash, and a gasp from within the stall and she saw Hermes’ eye peering through the keyhole. 

“Harriet!” he said. “You gave us such a fright—come in—how’s your arm?” 

“Fine,” said Harriet, squeezing into the stall. An old cauldron was perched on the toilet, and a crackling from under the rim told Harriet they had lit a fire beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires was a speciality of Hermes’. 

“We’d’ve come to meet you, but we decided to get started on the Polyjuice Potion,” Ronnie explained as Harriet, with difficulty, locked the stall again. “We’ve decided this is the safest place to hide it.” 

Harriet started to tell them about Colette, but Hermes interrupted. 

“We already know—we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor Flitwick this morning. That’s why we decided we’d better get going—” 

“The sooner we get a confession out of Black, the better,” snarled Ronnie. “D’you know what I think? She was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch match, she took it out on Colette.” 

“There’s something else,” said Harriet, watching Hermes tearing bundles of knotgrass and throwing them into the potion. “Dobby came to visit me in the middle of the night.” 

Ronnie and Hermes looked up, amazed. Harriet told them everything Dobby had told her—or hadn’t told her. Hermes and Ronnie listened with their mouths open. 

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” Hermes said. 

“This settles it,” said Ronnie in a triumphant voice. “Luanna Black must’ve opened the Chamber when she was at school here and now she’s told dear old Dahlia how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby’d told you what kind of monster’s in there, though. I want to know how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the school.” 

“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” said Hermes, prodding leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or maybe it can disguise itself—pretend to be a suit of armor or something—I’ve read about Chameleon Ghouls—” 

“You read too much, Hermes,” said Ronnie, pouring dead lacewings on top of the leeches. She crumpled up the empty lacewing bag and looked at Harriet. 

“So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and broke your arm.” She shook her head. “You know what, Harriet? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life he’s going to kill you.”

The news that Colette Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone. 

Jerry Prewett, who sat next to Colette Creevey in Charms, was distraught, but Harriet felt that Frankie and Georgina were going the wrong way about cheering him up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at him from behind statues. They only stopped when Penelope, apoplectic with rage, told them she was going to write to Mr. Prewett and tell him Jerry was having nightmares. 

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Netta Fortesque bought a large, evil smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other Gryffindor girls pointed out that she was in no danger; she was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked. 

“They went for Filch first,” Netta said, her round face fearful. “And everyone knows I’m almost a Squib.” 

In the second week of December Professor McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes signed his list; they had heard that Black was staying, which struck them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to worm a confession out of her. 

Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They still needed the Bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place they were going to get them was from Prince’s private stores. Harriet privately felt she’d rather face Slytherin’s legendary monster than let Prince catch her robbing her office. 

“What we need,” said Hermes briskly as Thursday afternoon’s double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Prince’s office and take what we need.” Harriet and Ronnie looked at him nervously. 

“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermes continued in a matter of fact tone. “You two will be expelled if you get into any more trouble, and I’ve got a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough mayhem to keep Prince busy for five minutes or so.”

Harriet smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Prince’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. 

Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Prince prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. Dahlia Black, who was Prince’s favorite student, kept flicking puffer fish eyes at Ronnie and Harriet, who knew that if they retaliated they would get detention faster than you could say “Unfair.” 

Harriet’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but she had her mind on more important things. She was waiting for Hermes’ signal, and she hardly listened as Prince paused to sneer at her watery potion. When Prince turned and walked off to bully Netta, Hermes caught Harriet’s eye and nodded. 

Harriet ducked swiftly down behind her cauldron, pulled one of Frankie’s Filibuster fireworks out of her pocket, and gave it a quick prod with her wand. The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing she had only seconds, Harriet straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in Goyle’s cauldron. 

Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Black got a faceful and her nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, her hands over her eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate—Prince was trying to restore calm and find out what had happened. Through the confusion, Harriet saw Hermes slip quietly into Prince’s office. 

“Silence! SILENCE!” Prince roared. “Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draft—when I find out who did this—” 

Harriet tried not to laugh as she watched Black hurry forward, her head drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to Prince’s desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed up lips, Harriet saw Hermes slide back into the dungeon, the front of his robes bulging. 

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings had subsided, Prince swept over to Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.

“If I ever find out who threw this,” Prince whispered, “I shall make sure that person is expelled.” 

Harriet arranged her face into what she hoped was a puzzled expression. Prince was looking right at her, and the bell that rang ten minutes later could not have been more welcome. 

“She knew it was me,” Harriet told Ronnie and Hermes as they hurried back to Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. “I could tell.” 

Hermes threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to stir feverishly. 

“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” he said happily. 

“Prince can’t prove it was you,” said Ronnie reassuringly to Harriet. “What can she do?” 

“Knowing Prince, something foul,” said Harriet as the potion frothed and bubbled. 

A week later, Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Sinead Finnigan and Dinah Thomas beckoned them over, looking excited. 

“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Sinead. “First meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days…” 

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” said Ronnie, but she, too, read the sign with interest. 

“Could be useful,” she said to Harriet and Hermes as they went into dinner. “Shall we go?” 

Harriet and Hermes were all for it, so at eight o’clock that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited. 

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermes as they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when she was young—maybe it’ll be her.” 

“As long as it’s not—” Harriet began, but she ended on a groan: Gillian Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Prince, wearing her usual black. 

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!”

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works.”

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “She tells me she knows a tiny little bit about dueling herself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with her, never fear!” 

“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ronnie muttered in Harriet’s ear. 

Prince’s upper lip was curling. Harriet wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Prince had been looking at her like that she’d have been running as fast as she could in the opposite direction. 

Lockhart and Prince turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of her hands, whereas Prince jerked her head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them. 

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.” 

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harriet murmured, watching Prince baring her teeth. 

“One—two—three—” 

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Prince cried: “Expelliarmus!” There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off her feet: She flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor. 

Black and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Hermes was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think she’s all right?” he squealed through his fingers. 

“Who cares?” said Harriet and Ronnie together. 

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to her feet. Her hat had fallen off and her wavy hair was all over the place. 

“Well, there you have it!” she said, tottering back onto the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—ah, thank you, Mr. Brown—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Prince, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy—however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…”

Prince was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because she said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Prince, if you’d like to help me—” 

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Netta with Justine Finch-Fletchley, but Prince reached Harriet and Ronnie first. 

“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” she sneered. “Prewett, you can partner Finnigan. Evans—” 

Harriet moved automatically toward Hermes. 

“I don’t think so,” said Prince, smiling coldly. “Miss Black, come over here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Evans. And you, Mr. Granger—you can partner Mr. Bulstrode.” 

Black strutted over, smirking. Behind her walked a Slytherin boy who reminded Harriet of a picture she’d seen in Holidays with Hags. He was large and square and his heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermes gave him a weak smile that he did not return. 

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!” 

Harriet and Black barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other. 

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents—only to disarm them—we don’t want any accidents—one… two… three—” 

Harriet swung his wand high, but Black had already started on “two”: her spell hit Harriet so hard she felt as though she’d been hit over the head with a saucepan. She stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and wasting no more time, Harriet pointed his wand straight at Black and shouted, “Rictusempra!” 

A jet of silver light hit Black in the stomach and she doubled up, wheezing. 

“I said disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Black sank to her knees; Harriet had hit her with a Tickling Charm, and she could barely move for laughing. Harriet hung back, with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch Black while she was on the floor, but this was a mistake; gasping for breath, Black pointed her wand at Harriet’s knees, choked, “Tarantallegra!” and the next second Harriet’s legs began to jerk around out of her control in a kind of quickstep. 

“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Prince took charge. “Finite Incantatem!” she shouted; Harriet’s feet stopped dancing, Black stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Netta and Justine were lying on the floor, panting; Ronnie was holding up an ashen faced Sinead, apologizing for whatever her broken wand had done; but Hermes and Melvin Bulstrode were still moving; Melvin had Hermes in a headlock and Hermes was whimpering in pain; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor. Harriet leapt forward and pulled Melvin off. It was difficult: He was a lot bigger than she was. 

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan… Careful there, Miss Fawcett… Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot…” 

“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. She glanced at Prince, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair—Fortesque and Finch-Fletchley, how about you—” 

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Prince, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. “Fortesque causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.” Netta’s round, pink face went pinker. “How about Black and Evans?” said Prince with a twisted smile. 

“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harriet and Black into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room. 

“Now, Harriet,” said Lockhart. “When Dahlia points her wand at you, you do this.” 

She raised her own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Prince smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops—my wand is a little overexcited—” 

Prince moved closer to Black, bent down, and whispered something in her ear. Black smirked, too. Harriet looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, “Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?” 

“Scared?” muttered Black, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear her. 

“You wish,” said Harriet out of the corner of her mouth. 

Lockhart cuffed Harriet merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harriet!” 

“What, drop my wand?” 

But Lockhart wasn’t listening. 

“Three—two—one—go!” she shouted.

Black raised her wand quickly and bellowed, “Serpensortia!” 

The end of her wand exploded. Harriet watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor. 

“Don’t move, Evans,” said Prince lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harriet standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it…” 

“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. She brandished her wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justine Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike. 

Harriet wasn’t sure what made her do it. She wasn’t even aware of deciding to do it. All she knew was that her legs were carrying her forward as though she was on casters and that she had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave her alone!” And miraculously—inexplicably—the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harriet. Harriet felt the fear drain out of her. She knew the snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how she knew it, she couldn’t have explained. 

She looked up at Justine, grinning, expecting to see Justine looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful—but certainly not angry and scared. 

“What do you think you’re playing at?” she shouted, and before Harriet could say anything, Justine had turned and stormed out of the hall. 

Prince stepped forward, waved her wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Prince, too, was looking at Harriet in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harriet didn’t like it. She was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then she felt a tugging on the back of her robes. 

“Come on,” said Ronnie’s voice in her ear. “Move—come on—” 

Ronnie steered her out of the hall, Hermes hurrying alongside them. As they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something. Harriet didn’t have a clue what was going on, and neither Ronnie nor Hermes explained anything until they had dragged her all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common room. Then Ronnie pushed Harriet into an armchair and said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’m a what?” said Harriet. 

“A Parselmouth!” said Ronnie. “You can talk to snakes!” 

“I know,” said Harriet. “I mean, that’s only the second time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Diana at the zoo once—long story—but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to that was before I knew I was a witch—” 

“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ronnie repeated faintly. 

“So?” said Harriet. “I bet loads of people here can do it.” 

“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ronnie. “It’s not a very common gift. Harriet, this is bad.” 

“What’s bad?” said Harriet, starting to feel quite angry. “What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Justine—” 

“Oh, that’s what you said to it?” 

“What d’you mean? You were there—you heard me—” 

“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ronnie. “Snake language. You could have been saying anything—no wonder Justine panicked, you sounded like you were egging the snake on or something—it was creepy, you know—” 

Harriet gaped at her. 

“I spoke a different language? But—I didn’t realize—how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it?” 

Ronnie shook her head. Both she and Hermes were looking as though someone had died. Harriet couldn’t see what was so terrible. 

“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a massive snake biting off Justine’s head?” she said. “What does it matter how I did it as long as Justine doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?” 

“It matters,” said Hermes, speaking at last in a hushed voice, “because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.” 

Harriet’s mouth fell open. 

“Exactly,” said Ronnie. “And now the whole school’s going to think you’re her great great great great grandson or something—” 

“But I’m not,” said Harriet, with a panic she couldn’t quite explain. 

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermes. “She lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.” 

Harriet lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains around her four-poster she watched snow starting to drift past the tower window and wondered…

Could she be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? She didn’t know anything about her father’s family, after all. The Evans’ had always forbidden questions about her wizarding relatives. 

Quietly, Harriet tried to say something in Parseltongue. The words wouldn’t come. It seemed she had to be face to face with a snake to do it. 

But I’m in Gryffindor, Harriet thought. The Sorting Hat wouldn’t have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood… 

Ah, said a nasty little voice in her brain, but the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you remember? 

Harriet turned over. She’d see Justine the next day in Herbology and she’d explain that she’d been calling the snake off, not egging it on, which (she thought angrily, pummeling her pillow) any fool should have realized. 

By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation he would entrust to no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mr. Norris and Colette Creevey. 

Harriet fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, while Ronnie and Hermes used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.

“For heaven’s sake, Harriet,” said Hermes, exasperated, as one of Ronnie’s bishops wrestled his knight off his horse and dragged him off the board. “Go and find Justine if it’s so important to you.” 

So Harriet got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where Justine might be. 

The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Harriet walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a look, Harriet walked on by, thinking that Justine might be using her free time to catch up on some work, and deciding to check the library first. 

A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn’t seem to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harriet could see that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. She couldn’t see whether Justine was among them. She was walking toward them when something of what they were saying met her ears, and she paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section. 

“So anyway,” a stout girl was saying, “I told Justine to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Evans’ marked her down as her next victim, it’s best if she keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justine’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since she let slip to Evans she was Muggle-born. Justine actually told her she’d been down for Eton. That’s not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s heir on the loose, is it?” 

“You definitely think it is Evans, then, Eleanor?” said a boy with blonde pigtails anxiously. 

“Hancock,” said the stout girl solemnly, “she’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue.” 

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Eleanor went on, “Remember what was written on the wall? Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Evans had some sort of run in with Filch. Next thing we know, Flich’s cat’s attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying Evans at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of her while she was lying in the mud. Next thing we know—Creevey’s been attacked.”

“She always seems so nice, though,” said Hancock uncertainly, “and, well, she’s the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. She can’t be all bad, can she?” 

Eleanor lowered her voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Harriet edged nearer so that she could catch Eleanor’s words. 

“No one knows how she survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, she was only a baby when it happened. She should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that.” She dropped her voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and said, “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill her in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with her. I wonder what other powers Evans’ been hiding?” 

Harriet couldn’t take anymore. Clearing her throat loudly, she stepped out from behind the bookshelves. If she hadn’t been feeling so angry, she would have found the sight that greeted her funny: Every one of the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been Petrified by the sight of her, and the color was draining out of Eleanor’s face. 

“Hello,” said Harriet. “I’m looking for Justine Finch-Fletchley.” 

The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Eleanor. 

“What do you want with her?” said Eleanor in a quavering voice. 

“I wanted to tell her what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harriet. 

Eleanor bit her white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what happened.” 

“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” said Harriet. 

“All I saw,” said Eleanor stubbornly, though she was trembling as she spoke, “was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justine. “ 

“I didn’t chase it at her!” Harriet said, her voice shaking with anger. “It didn’t even touch her!” 

“It was a very near miss,” said Eleanor. “And in case you’re getting ideas,” she added hastily, “I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s, so—” 

“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Harriet fiercely. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?” 

“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said Eleanor swiftly.

“It’s not possible to live with the Evans’ and not hate them,” said Harriet. “I’d like to see you try it.” 

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the library, earning herself a reproving glare from Master Pince, who was polishing the gilded cover of a large spellbook. 

Harriet blundered up the corridor, barely noticing where she was going, she was in such a fury. The result was that she walked into something very large and solid, which knocked her backward onto the floor. 

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harriet said, looking up. 

Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, as she filled most of the corridor in her moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of her massive, gloved hands. 

“All righ’, Harriet?” she said, pulling up the balaclava so she could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?” 

“Canceled,” said Harriet, getting up. “What’re you doing in here?” 

Hagrid held up the limp rooster. 

“Second one killed this term,” she explained. “It’s either foxes or a Blood Suckin Bugbear, an’ I need the Headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.” 

She peered more closely at Harriet from under her thick, snow flecked eyebrows. 

“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all hot an’ bothered—” 

Harriet couldn’t bring herself to repeat what Eleanor and the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about her. 

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s Transfiguration next and I’ve got to pick up my books.” She walked off, her mind still full of what Eleanor had said about her. 

“Justine’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since she let slip to Evans she was Muggle-born…” 

Harriet stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. She was halfway down the passage when she tripped headlong over something lying on the floor. 

She turned to squint at what she’d fallen over and felt as though her stomach had dissolved. 

Justine Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on her face, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all. Next to her was another figure, the strangest sight Harriet had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justine’s. 

Harriet got to her feet, her breathing fast and shallow, her heart doing a kind of drum roll against her ribs. She looked wildly up and down the deserted corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either side. 

She could run, and no one would ever know she had been there. But she couldn’t just leave them lying here… she had to get help… Would anyone believe she hadn’t had anything to do with this? 

As she stood there, panicking, a door right next to her opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out. 

“Why, it’s potty wee Evans!” cackled Peeves, knocking Harriet’s glasses askew as he bounced past her. “What’s Evans up to? Why’s Evans lurking—” 

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted Justine and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and, before Harriet could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!” 

Crash—crash—crash—door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that Justine was in danger of being squashed and people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harriet found herself pinned against the wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by his own class, one of whom still had black and white striped hair. He used his wand to set off aloud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Eleanor the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene. 

“Caught in the act!” Eleanor yelled, her face stark white, pointing her finger dramatically at Harriet. 

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply. 

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justine and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:

“Oh, Evans, oh, what have you done, you’re killing off’ students, you think it’s good fun—” 

“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harriet. 

Justine was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which he gave to Eleanor with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Eleanor did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This left Harriet and Professor McGonagall alone together. 

“This way, Evans,” he said. 

“Professor,” said Harriet at once, “I swear I didn’t—” 

“This is out of my hands, Evans,” said Professor McGonagall curtly. 

They marched in silence around a corner and he stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle. 

“Lemon drop!” he said. This was evidently a password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harriet couldn’t fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As she and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it, Harriet heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harriet saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin. 

She knew now where she was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.


	12. The Polyjuice Potion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Harriet to wait and left her there, alone. 

Harriet looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers’ offices Harriet had visited so far this year, Dumbledore’s was by far the most interesting. If she hadn’t been scared out of her wits that she was about to be thrown out of school, she would have been very pleased to have a chance to look around it. 

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard’s hat—the Sorting Hat.

Harriet hesitated. She cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn’t hurt if she took the hat down and tried it on again? Just to see… just to make sure it had put her in the right House— 

She walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto her head. It was much too large and slipped down over her eyes, just as it had done the last time she’d put it on. Harriet stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice said in her ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harriet Evans?” 

“Er, yes,” Harriet muttered. “Er—sorry to bother you—I wanted to ask—” 

“You’ve been wondering whether I put you in the right House,” said the hat smartly. “Yes… you were particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I said before”—Harriet’s heart leapt—“you would have done well in Slytherin—” 

Harriet’s stomach plummeted. She grabbed the point of the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in her hand, grubby and faded. Harriet pushed it back onto its shelf, feeling sick. 

“You’re wrong,” she said aloud to the still and silent hat. It didn’t move. Harriet backed away, watching it. Then a strange, gagging noise behind her made her wheel around.

She wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit looking bird that resembled a half plucked turkey. Harriet stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harriet thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harriet watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail. 

Harriet was just thinking that all she needed was for Dumbledore’s pet bird to die while she was alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames. 

Harriet yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. She looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smouldering pile of ash on the floor. 

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber. 

“Professor,” Harriet gasped. “Your bird—I couldn’t do anything—he just caught fire—” 

To Harriet’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled. 

“About time, too,” she said. “He’s been looking dreadful for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.” She chuckled at the stunned look on Harriet’s face. 

“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harriet. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him…” 

Harriet looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one. 

“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,” said Dumbledore, seating herself behind her desk. “He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets.” 

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harriet had forgotten what she was there for, but it all came back to her as Dumbledore settled herself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Harriet with her penetrating, light blue stare. 

Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in her eyes, her balaclava perched on top of her shaggy black head and the dead rooster still swinging from her hand. 

“It wasn’ Harriet, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was talkin’ ter her seconds before that kid was found, she never had time, ma’am—”

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the rooster around in her agitation, sending feathers everywhere. 

“it can’t’ve bin her, I’ll swear it in front o’ the Ministry o’ Magic if I have to—” 

“Hagrid, I—” 

“—yeh’ve got the wrong girl, ma’am, I know Harriet never—” 

“Hagrid!” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that Harriet attacked those people.” 

“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at her side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmistress.” And she stomped out looking embarrassed. 

“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harriet repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off her desk. 

“No, Harriet, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though her face was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you.” 

Harriet waited nervously while Dumbledore considered her, the tips of her long fingers together. 

“I must ask you, Harriet, whether there is anything you’d like to tell me,” she said gently. “Anything at all.” 

Harriet didn’t know what to say. She thought of Black shouting, “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” and of the Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. Then she thought of the disembodied voice she had heard twice and remembered what Ronnie had said: “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.” She thought, too, about what everyone was saying about her, and her growing dread that she was somehow connected with Salazar Slytherin. 

“No,” said Harriet. “There isn’t anything, Professor…” 

The double attack on Justine and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas. 

“At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left,” Ronnie told Harriet and Hermes. “Us, Black, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.” 

Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Black did, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. But Harriet was glad that most people were leaving. She was tired of people skirting around her in the corridors, as though she was about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and hissing as she passed.

Frankie and Georgina, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Harriet down the corridors, shouting, “Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through…” 

Penelope was deeply disapproving of this behavior. 

“It is not a laughing matter,” she said coldly. 

“Oh, get out of the way, Penelope,” said Frankie. “Harriet’s in a hurry.” 

“Yeah, she’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with her fanged servant,” said Georgina, chortling. 

Jerry didn’t find it amusing either. 

“Oh, don’t,” he wailed every time Frankie asked Harriet loudly who she was planning to attack next, or when Georgina pretended to ward Harriet off with a large clove of garlic when they met. 

Harriet didn’t mind; it made her feel better that Frankie and Georgina, at least, thought the idea of her being Slytherin’s heir was quite ludicrous. But their antics seemed to be aggravating Dahlia Black, who looked increasingly sour each time she saw them at it. 

“It’s because she’s bursting to say it’s really her,” said Ronnie knowingly. “You know how she hates anyone beating her at anything, and you’re getting all the credit for her dirty work.” 

“Not for long,” said Hermes in a satisfied tone. “The Polyjuice Potion’s nearly ready. We’ll be getting the truth out of her any day now.” 

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harriet found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed the fact that she, Hermes, and the Prewett’s had the run of Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could play Exploding Snap loudly without bothering anyone, and practice dueling in private. Frankie, Georgina, and Jerry had chosen to stay at school rather than visit Beth in Egypt with Mr. and Mrs. Prewett. Penelope, who disapproved of what she termed their childish behavior, didn’t spend much time in the Gryffindor common room. She had already told them pompously that she was only staying over Christmas because it was her duty as a prefect to support the teachers during this troubled time. 

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harriet and Ronnie, the only ones left in their dormitory, were woken very early by Hermes, who burst in, fully dressed and carrying presents for them both.

“Wake up,” he said loudly, pulling back the curtains at the window. 

“Hermes—you’re not supposed to be in here—” said Ronnie, shielding her eyes against the light. 

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Hermes, throwing her her present. “I’ve been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to the potion. It’s ready.” 

Harriet sat up, suddenly wide awake. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive,” said Hermes, shifting Scabbers the rat so that he could sit down on the end of Ronnie’s four-poster. “If we’re going to do it, I say it should be tonight.” 

At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, carrying a very small package in her beak. 

“Hello,” said Harriet happily as she landed on her bed. “Are you speaking to me again?” 

She nibbled her ear in an affectionate sort of way, which was a far better present than the one that she had brought her, which turned out to be from the Evans’. They had sent Harriet a toothpick and a note telling her to find out whether she’d be able to stay at Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too. 

The rest of Harriet’s Christmas presents were far more satisfactory. Hagrid had sent her a large tin of treacle fudge, which Harriet decided to soften by the fire before eating; Ronnie had given her a book called Flying with the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about her favorite Quidditch team, and Hermes had bought her a luxury eagle feather quill. Harriet opened the last present to find a new, hand knitted sweater from Mr. Prewett and a large plum cake. She read his card with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mrs. Prewett’s car (which hadn’t been seen since its crash with the Whomping Willow), and amount of rule breaking she and Ronnie were planning next. 

No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice Potion later, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts. 

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of her favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog she consumed. Penelope, who hadn’t noticed that Fred had bewitched her prefect badge so that it now read “Pinhead,” kept asking them all what they were sniggering at. Harriet didn’t even care that Dahlia Black was making loud, snide remarks about her new sweater from the Slytherin table. With a bit of luck, Black would be getting her comeuppance in a few hours’ time.

Harriet and Ronnie had barely finished their third helpings of Christmas pudding when Hermes ushered them out of the hall to finalize their plans for the evening. 

“We still need a bit of the people you’re changing into,” said Hermes matter of factly, as though he were sending them to the supermarket for laundry detergent. “And obviously, it’ll be best if you can get something of Crabbe’s and Goyle’s; they’re Black’s best friends, she’ll tell them anything. And we also need to make sure the real Crabbe and Goyle can’t burst in on us while we’re interrogating her. 

“I’ve got it all worked out,” he went on smoothly, ignoring Harriet’s and Ronnie’s stupefied faces. He held up two plump chocolate cakes. “I’ve filled these with a simple Sleeping Draught. All you have to do is make sure Crabbe and Goyle find them. You know how greedy they are, they’re bound to eat them. Once they’re asleep, pull out a few of their hairs and hide them in a broom closet.” 

Harriet and Ronnie looked incredulously at each other. 

“Hermes, I don’t think—” 

“That could go seriously wrong—” 

But Hermes had a steely glint in his eye not unlike the one Professor McGonagall sometimes had. 

“The potion will be useless without Crabbe’s and Goyle’s hair,” he said sternly. “You do want to investigate Black, don’t you?” 

“Oh, all right, all right,” said Harriet. “But what about you? Whose hair are you ripping out?” 

“I’ve already got mine!” said Hermes brightly, pulling a tiny bottle out of her pocket and showing them the single hair inside it. “Remember Melvin Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling Club? He left this on my robes when he was trying to strangle me! And he’s gone home for Christmas—so I’ll just have to tell the Slytherins I’ve decided to come back.” 

When Hermes had bustled off to check on the Polyjuice Potion again, Ronnie turned to Harriet with a doom-laden expression. 

“Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things could go wrong?” 

But to Harriet’s and Ronnie’s utter amazement, stage one of the operation went just as smoothly as Hermes had said. They lurked in the deserted entrance hall after Christmas tea, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle who had remained alone at the Slytherin table, shoveling down fourth helpings of trifle. Harriet had perched the chocolate cakes on the end of the banisters. When they spotted Crabbe and Goyle coming out of the Great Hall, Harriet and Ronnie hid quickly behind a suit of armor next to the front door.

“How thick can you get?” Ronnie whispered ecstatically as Crabbe gleefully pointed out the cakes to Goyle and grabbed them. Grinning stupidly, they stuffed the cakes whole into their large mouths. For a moment, both of them chewed greedily, looks of triumph on their faces. Then, without the smallest change of expression, they both keeled over backward onto the floor. 

By far the hardest part was hiding them in the closet across the hall. Once they were safely stowed among the buckets and mops, Harriet yanked out a couple of the bristles that covered Goyle’s forehead and Ronnie pulled out several of Crabbe’s hairs. They also stole their shoes, because their own were far too small for Crabbe and Goyle-size feet. Then, still stunned at what they had just done, they sprinted up to Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. 

They could hardly see for the thick black smoke issuing from the stall in which Hermes was stirring the cauldron. Pulling their robes up over their faces, Harriet and Ronnie knocked softly on the door. 

“Hermes?” 

They heard the scrape of the lock and Hermes emerged, shinyfaced and looking anxious. Behind him they heard the gloop gloop of the bubbling, glutinous potion. Three glass tumblers stood ready on the toilet seat. 

“Did you get them?” Hermes asked breathlessly. 

Harriet showed him Goyle’s hair. 

“Good. And I sneaked these spare robes out of the laundry,” Hermes said, holding up a small sack. “You’ll need bigger sizes once you’re Crabbe and Goyle.” 

The three of them stared into the cauldron. Close up, the potion looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling sluggishly. 

“I’m sure I’ve done everything right,” said Hermes, nervously rereading the splotched page of Moste Potente Potions. “It looks like the book says it should… once we’ve drunk it, we’ll have exactly an hour before we change back into ourselves.” 

“Now what?” Ronnie whispered. 

“We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs.” 

Hermes ladled large dollops of the potion into each of the glasses. Then, his hand trembling, he shook Melvin Bulstrode’s hair out of its bottle into the first glass.

The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly. A second later, it had turned a sick sort of yellow. 

“Urgh—essence of Melvin Bulstrode,” said Ronnie, eyeing it with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.” 

“Add yours, then,” said Hermes. 

Harriet dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and Ronnie put Crabbe’s into the last one. Both glasses hissed and frothed: Goyle’s turned the khaki color of a booger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown. 

“Hang on,” said Harriet as Ronnie and Hermes reached for their glasses. “We’d better not all drink them in here… Once we turn into Crabbe and Goyle we won’t fit. And Melvin Bulstrode’s no pixie.” 

“Good thinking,” said Ronnie, unlocking the door. “We’ll take separate stalls.” 

Careful not to spill a drop of her Polyjuice Potion, Harriet slipped into the middle stall. 

“Ready?” she called. 

“Ready,” came Ronnie’s and Hermes’ voices. 

“One—two—three—” 

Pinching her nose, Harriet drank the potion down in two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage. 

Immediately, her insides started writhing as though she’d just swallowed live snakes—doubled up, she wondered whether she was going to be sick—then a burning sensation spread rapidly from her stomach to the very ends of her fingers and toes—next, bringing her gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting feeling, as the skin all over her body bubbled like hot wax—and before her eyes, her hands began to grow, the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the knuckles were bulging like bolts—her shoulders stretched painfully and a prickling on her forehead told her that hair was creeping down toward her eyebrows—her robes ripped as her chest expanded like a barrel bursting its hoops—her feet were agony in shoes four sizes too small.

As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. Harriet lay facedown on the stone cold floor, listening to Mervin gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With difficulty, she kicked off her shoes and stood up. So this was what it felt like, being Goyle. Her large hand trembling, she pulled off her old robes, which were hanging a foot above her ankles, pulled on the spare ones, and laced up Goyle’s boatlike shoes. She reached up to brush her hair out of her eyes and met only the shorter growth of wiry hair, low on her forehead. Then she realized that her glasses were clouding her eyes because Goyle obviously didn’t need them—she took them off and called, “Are you two okay?” Goyle’s low rasp of a voice issued from her mouth. 

“Yeah,” came the deep grunt of Crabbe from her right. 

Harriet unlocked her door and stepped in front of the cracked mirror. Goyle stared back at her out of dull, deep set eyes. Harriet scratched her ear. So did Goyle. 

Ronnie’s door opened. They stared at each other. Except that she looked pale and shocked, Ronnie was indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms. 

“This is unbelievable,” said Ronnie, approaching the mirror and prodding Crabbe’s flat nose. “Unbelievable. “ 

“We’d better get going,” said Harriet, loosening the watch that was cutting into Goyle’s thick wrist. “We’ve still got to find out where the Slytherin common room is. I only hope we can find someone to follow…” 

Ronnie, who had been gazing at Harriet, said, “You don’t know how bizarre it is to see Goyle thinking.” She banged on Hermes’ door. “C’mon, we need to go—” 

A higher pitched voice answered her. 

“I—I don’t think I’m going to come after all. You go on without me.” 

“Hermes, we know Melvin Bulstrode’s ugly, no one’s going to know it’s you—” 

“No—really—I don’t think I’ll come. You two hurry up, you’re wasting time—” 

Harriet looked at Ronnie, bewildered. 

“That looks more like Goyle,” said Ronnie. “That’s how she looks every time a teacher asks her a question.” 

“Hermes, are you okay?” said Harriet through the door. 

“Fine—I’m fine—go on—” 

Harriet looked at her watch. Five of their precious sixty minutes had already passed. 

“We’ll meet you back here, all right?” she said. 

Harriet and Ronnie opened the door of the bathroom carefully, checked that the coast was clear, and set off. 

“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harriet muttered to Ronnie. 

“Eh?” 

“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff…” 

“How’s this?” 

“Yeah, that’s better…” 

They went down the marble staircase. All they needed now was a Slytherin that they could follow to the Slytherin common room, but there was nobody around. 

“Any ideas?” muttered Harriet. 

“The Slytherins always come up to breakfast from over there,” said Ronnie, nodding at the entrance to the dungeons. The words had barely left her mouth when a girl with long, curly hair emerged from the entrance. 

“Excuse me,” said Ronnie, hurrying up to her. “We’ve forgotten the way to our common room.” 

“I beg your pardon?” said the girl stiffly. “Our common room? I’m a Ravenclaw.” She walked away, looking suspiciously back at them. 

Harriet and Ronnie hurried down the stone steps into the darkness, their footsteps echoing particularly loudly as Crabbe’s and Goyle’s huge feet hit the floor, feeling that this wasn’t going to be as easy as they had hoped. 

The labyrinthine passages were deserted. They walked deeper and deeper under the school, constantly checking their watches to see how much time they had left. After a quarter of an hour, just when they were getting desperate, they heard a sudden movement ahead. 

“Ha!” said Ronnie excitedly. “There’s one of them now!” 

The figure was emerging from a side room. As they hurried nearer, however, their hearts sank. It wasn’t a Slytherin, it was Penelope. 

“What’re you doing down here?” said Ronnie in surprise. 

Penelope looked affronted. 

“That,” she said stiffly, “is none of your business. It’s Crabbe, isn’t it?” 

“Wh—oh, yeah,” said Ronnie. 

“Well, get off to your dormitories,” said Penelope sternly. “It’s not safe to go wandering around dark corridors these days.” 

“You are,” Ronnie pointed out. 

“I,” said Penelope, drawing herself up, “am a prefect. Nothing’s about to attack me.” 

A voice suddenly echoed behind Harriet and Ronnie. Dahlia Black was strolling toward them, and for the first time in her life, Harriet was pleased to see her. 

“There you are,” she drawled, looking at them. “Have you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show you something really funny.”

Black glanced witheringly at Penelope. 

“And what’re you doing down here, Prewett?” she sneered. 

Penelope looked outraged. 

“You want to show a bit more respect to a school prefect!” she said. “I don’t like your attitude!” 

Black sneered and motioned for Harriet and Ronnie to follow her. Harriet almost said something apologetic to Penelope but caught herself just in time. She and Ronnie hurried after Black, who said as they turned into the next passage, “That Petunia Prewett—” 

“Penelope,” Ronnie corrected her automatically. 

“Whatever,” said Black. “I’ve noticed her sneaking around a lot lately. And I bet I know what she’s up to. She thinks she’s going to catch Slytherin’s heir single handed.” She gave a short, derisive laugh. Harriet and Ronnie exchanged excited looks. 

Black paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. 

“What’s the new password again?” she said to Harriet. 

“Er—” said Harriet. 

“Oh, yeah—pure blood!” said Black, not listening, and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Black marched through it, and Harriet and Ronnie followed her. 

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in high backed chairs. 

“Wait here,” said Black to Harriet and Ronnie, motioning them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire. “I’ll go and get it—my mother’s just sent it to me—” 

Wondering what Black was going to show them, Harriet and Ronnie sat down, doing their best to look at home. 

Black came back a minute later, holding what looked like a newspaper clipping. She thrust it under Ronnie’s nose. 

“That’ll give you a laugh,” she said. 

Harriet saw Ronnie’s eyes widen in shock. She read the clipping quickly, gave a very forced laugh, and handed it to Harriet. 

It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it said: 

“INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 

Arlene Prewett, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car. 

Mrs. Luanna Black, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mrs. Prewett’s resignation.

“Prewett has brought the Ministry into disrepute,” Mrs. Black told our reporter. “She is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and her ridiculous Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.” 

Mrs. Prewett was unavailable for comment, although her husband told reporters to clear off or he’d set the family ghoul on them.”

“Well?” said Black impatiently as Harriet handed the clipping back to her. “Don’t you think it’s funny?” 

“Ha, ha,” said Harriet bleakly. 

“Arlene Prewett loves Muggles so much she should snap her wand in half and go and join them,” said Black scornfully. “You’d never know the Prewett’s were pure bloods, the way they behave.” 

Ronnie’s—or rather, Crabbe’s—face was contorted with fury. 

“What’s up with you, Crabbe?” snapped Black. 

“Stomachache,” Ronnie grunted. 

“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Black, snickering. “You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t reported all these attacks yet,” she went on thoughtfully. “I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. She’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. Mother’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to this place. She loves Muggle-borns. A decent headmistress would never’ve let slime like that Creevey in.” 

Black started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of Colette: “‘Evans, can I have your picture, Evans? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Evans?’” 

She dropped her hands and looked at Harriet and Ronnie. 

“What’s the matter with you two?” 

Far too late, Harriet and Ronnie forced themselves to laugh, but Black seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were always slow on the uptake. 

“Saint Evans, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Black slowly. “She’s another one with no proper wizard feeling, or she wouldn’t go around with that jumped up Granger Mudblood. And people think she’s Slytherin’s heir!” 

Harriet and Ronnie waited with bated breath: Black was surely seconds away from telling them it was her—but then “I wish I knew who it is,” said Black petulantly. “I could help them.” 

Ronnie’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more clueless than usual. Fortunately, Black didn’t notice, and Harriet, thinking fast, said, “You must have some idea who’s behind it all…”

“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?” snapped Black. “And Mother won’t tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before her time, but she knows all about it, and she says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing—last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time… I hope it’s Granger,” she said with relish. 

Ronnie was clenching Crabbe’s gigantic fists. Feeling that it would be a bit of a giveaway if Ronnie punched Black, Harriet shot her a warning look and said, “D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?” 

“Oh, yeah… whoever it was expelled,” said Black. “They’re probably still in Azkaban.” 

“Azkaban?” said Harriet, puzzled. 

“Azkaban—the wizard prison, Goyle,” said Black, looking at her in disbelief. “Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward.” 

She shifted restlessly in her chair and said, “Mother says to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. She says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, she’s got a lot on her plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our manor last week?” 

Harriet tried to force Goyle’s dull face into a look of concern. 

“Yeah…” said Black. “Luckily, they didn’t find much. Mother’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the drawing room floor—” 

“Ho!” said Ronnie. 

Black looked at her. So did Harriet. Ronnie blushed. Even her hair was turning red. Her nose was also slowly lengthening—their hour was up, Ronnie was turning back into herself, and from the look of horror she was suddenly giving Harriet, she must be, too. 

They both jumped to their feet. 

“Medicine for my stomach,” Ronnie grunted, and without further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall, and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that Black hadn’t noticed anything. Harriet could feel her feet slipping around in Goyle’s huge shoes and had to hoist up her robes as she shrank; they crashed up the steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a muffled pounding coming from the closet where they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks up the marble staircase toward Moaning Mervin’s bathroom.

“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ronnie panted, closing the bathroom door behind them. “I know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the attacks, but I’m going to write to Mum tomorrow and tell her to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room.” 

Harriet checked her face in the cracked mirror. She was back to normal. She put her glasses on as Ronnie hammered on the door of Hermes’ stall. 

“Hermes, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you—” 

“Go away!” Hermes squeaked. 

Harriet and Ronnie looked at each other. 

“What’s the matter?” said Ronnie. “You must be back to normal by now, we are—” 

But Moaning Mervin glided suddenly through the stall door. Harriet had never seen him looking so happy. 

“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” he said. “It’s awful—” 

They heard the lock slide back and Hermes emerged, sobbing, his robes pulled up over his head. 

“What’s up?” said Ronnie uncertainly. “Have you still got Melvin’s nose or something?” 

Hermes let his robes fall and Ronnie backed into the sink. 

His face was covered in black fur. His eyes had turned yellow and there were long, pointed ears poking through his hair. 

“It was a c-cat hair!” he howled. “M-Melvin Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn’t supposed to be used for animal transformations!” 

“Uh oh,” said Ronnie. 

“You’ll be teased something dreadful,” said Mervin happily. 

“It’s okay, Hermes,” said Harriet quickly. “We’ll take you up to the hospital wing. Master Pomfrey never asks too many questions…” 

It took a long time to persuade Hermes to leave the bathroom. Moaning Mervin sped them on their way with a hearty guffaw. “Wait till everyone finds out you’ve got a tail!”


	13. The Very Secret Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Hermes remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a flurry of rumor about his disappearance when the rest of the school arrived back from their Christmas holidays, because of course everyone thought that he had been attacked. So many students filed past the hospital wing trying to catch a glimpse of him that Master Pomfrey took out his curtains again and placed them around Hermes’ bed, to spare him the shame of being seen with a furry face.

Harriet and Ronnie went to visit him every evening. When the new term started, they brought him each day’s homework. 

“If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,” said Ronnie, tipping a stack of books onto Hermes’ bedside table one evening. 

“Don’t be silly, Ronnie, I’ve got to keep up,” said Hermes briskly. His spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from his face and his eyes were turning slowly back to brown. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any new leads?” he added in a whisper, so that Master Pomfrey couldn’t hear him. 

“Nothing,” said Harriet gloomily. 

“I was so sure it was Black,” said Ronnie, for about the hundredth time.

“What’s that?” asked Harriet, pointing to something gold sticking out from under Hermes’ pillow. 

“Just a get well card,” said Hermes hastily, trying to poke it out of sight, but Ronnie was too quick for him. She pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud: 

“To Mr. Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gillian Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five time winner of Witch Weekly’s MostCharming Smile Award.” 

Ronnie looked up at Hermes, disgusted. 

“You sleep with this under your pillow?” 

But Hermes was spared answering by Master Pomfrey sweeping over with his evening dose of medicine. 

“Is Lockhart the smarmiest gal you’ve ever met, or what?” Ronnie said to Harriet as they left the infirmary and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. Prince had given them so much homework, Harriet thought she was likely to be in the sixth year before she finished it. Ronnie was just saying she wished she had asked Hermes how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a Hair Raising Potion when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears. 

“That’s Filch,” Harriet muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard. 

“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” said Ronnie tensely. 

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Flich’s voice, which sounded quite hysterical. 

“—even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore—” 

Her footsteps receded along the out of sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam. 

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning her usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mr. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Mervin’s wails echoing off the bathroom walls. 

“Now what’s up with her?” said Ronnie. 

“Let’s go and see,” said Harriet, and holding their robes over their ankles they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign, ignored it as always, and entered.

Moaning Mervin was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. He seemed to be hiding down his usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet. 

“What’s up, Mervin?” said Harriet. 

“Who’s that?” glugged Mervin miserably. “Come to throw something else at me?” 

Harriet waded across to his stall and said, “Why would I throw something at you?” 

“Don’t ask me,” Mervin shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me…” 

“But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at you,” said Harriet, reasonably. “I mean, it’d just go right through you, wouldn’t it?” 

She had said the wrong thing. Mervin puffed himself up and shrieked, “Let’s all throw books at Mervin, because he can’t feel it! Ten points if you can get it through his stomach! Fifty points if it goes through his head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don’t think!” 

“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harriet. 

“I don’t know… I was just sitting in the U bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head,” said Mervin, glaring at them. “It’s over there, it got washed out…” 

Harriet and Ronnie looked under the sink where Mervin was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harriet stepped forward to pick it up, but Ronnie suddenly flung out an arm to hold her back. 

“What?” said Harriet. 

“Are you crazy?” said Ronnie. “It could be dangerous.” 

“Dangerous?” said Harriet, laughing. “Come off it, how could it be dangerous?” 

“You’d be surprised,” said Ronnie, who was looking apprehensively at the book. “Some of the books the Ministry’s confiscated Mum’s told me—there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one handed. And—” 

“All right, I’ve got the point,” said Harriet. 

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.

“Well, we won’t find out unless we look at it,” she said, and she ducked around Ronnie and picked it up off the floor. 

Harriet saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told her it was fifty years old. She opened it eagerly. On the first page she could just make out the name “T.M. Riddle” in smudged ink. 

“Hang on,” said Ronnie, who had approached cautiously and was looking over Harriet’s shoulder. “I know that name… T.M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago.” 

“How on earth d’you know that?” said Harriet in amazement. 

“Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention,” said Ronnie resentfully. “That was the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped slime off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.” 

Harriet peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There wasn’t the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel’s birthday, or dentist, half past three. 

“He never wrote in it,” said Harriet, disappointed. 

“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” said Ronnie curiously. 

Harriet turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London. 

“She must’ve been Muggle-born,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “To have bought a diary from Vauxhall Road…” 

“Well, it’s not much use to you,” said Ronnie. She dropped her voice. “Fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle’s nose.” Harriet, however, pocketed it. 

Hermes left the hospital wing, de-whiskered, tail-less, and fur-free, at the beginning of February. On his first evening back in Gryffindor Tower, Harriet showed him T.M. Riddle’s diary and told him the story of how they had found it. 

“Oooh, it might have hidden powers,” said Hermes enthusiastically, taking the diary and looking at it closely. 

“If it has, it’s hiding them very well,” said Ronnie. “Maybe it’s shy. I don’t know why you don’t chuck it, Harriet.” 

“I wish I knew why someone did try to chuck it,” said Harriet. “I wouldn’t mind knowing how Riddle got an award for special services to Hogwarts either.” 

“Could’ve been anything,” said Ronnie. “Maybe he got thirty O.W.L.s or saved a teacher from the giant squid. Maybe he murdered Mervin; that would’ve done everyone a favor…”

But Harriet could tell from the arrested look on Hermes’ face that he was thinking what she was thinking. 

“What?” said Ronnie, looking from one to the other. 

“Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, wasn’t it?” she said. “That’s what Black said.” 

“Yeah…” said Ronnie slowly. 

“And this diary is fifty years old,” said Hermes, tapping it excitedly. 

“So?” 

“Oh, Ronnie, wake up,” snapped Hermes. “We know the person who opened the Chamber last time was expelled fifty years ago. We know T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago. Well, what if Riddle got his special award for catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything—where the Chamber is, and how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in it—the person who’s behind the attacks this time wouldn’t want that lying around, would they?” 

“That’s a brilliant theory, Hermes,” said Ronnie, “with just one tiny little flaw. There’s nothing written in his diary.” But Hermes was pulling his wand out of his bag. 

“It might be invisible ink!” he whispered. 

He tapped the diary three times and said, “Aparecium!” 

Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermes shoved his hand back into his bag and pulled out what appeared to be a bright red eraser. 

“It’s a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” he said. 

He rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened. 

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing to find in there,” said Ronnie. “Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and couldn’t be bothered filling it in.” 

Harriet couldn’t explain, even to herself, why she didn’t just throw Riddle’s diary away. The fact was that even though she knew the diary was blank, she kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story she wanted to finish. And while Harriet was sure she had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to her, almost as though Riddle was a friend she’d had when she was very small, and had half forgotten. But this was absurd. She’d never had friends before Hogwarts, Diana had made sure of that. 

Nevertheless, Harriet was determined to find out more about Riddle, so next day at break, she headed for the trophy room to examine Riddle’s special award, accompanied by an interested Hermes and a thoroughly unconvinced Ronnie, who told them she’d seen enough of the trophy room to last her a lifetime.

Riddle’s burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet. It didn’t carry details of why it had been given to him (“Good thing, too, or it’d be even bigger and I’d still be polishing it,” said Ronnie). However, they did find Riddle’s name on an old Medal for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys. 

“He sounds like Penelope,” said Ronnie, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Prefect, Head Boy… probably top of every class—” 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermes in a slightly hurt voice. 

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those on Justine and Nearly Headless Nick, and Master Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood. 

“The moment their acne clears up, they’ll be ready for repotting again,” Harriet heard him telling Filch kindly one afternoon. “And after that, it won’t be long until we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have Mr. Norris back in no time.” 

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her nerve, thought Harry. It must be getting riskier and riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster, whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to hibernate for another fifty years… 

Eleanor Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn’t take this cheerful view. She was still convinced that Harriet was the guilty one, that she had “given herself away” at the Dueling Club. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; she kept popping up in the crowded corridors singing, now with a dance routine to match. 

Gillian Lockhart seemed to think she himself had made the attacks stop. Harriet overheard her telling Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors were lining up for Transfiguration. 

“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Milton,” she said, tapping her nose knowingly and winking. “I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught her. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on her. 

“You know, what the school needs now is a morale booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won’t say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing…”

She tapped her nose again and strode off. 

Lockhart’s idea of a morale booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth. Harriet hadn’t had much sleep because of a laterunning Quidditch practice the night before, and she hurried down to the Great Hall, slightly late. She thought, for a moment, that she’d walked through the wrong doors. 

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Harriet went over to the Gryffindor table, where Ronnie was sitting looking sickened, and Hermes seemed to have been overcome with giggles. 

“What’s going on?” Harriet asked them, sitting down and wiping confetti off her bacon. 

Ronnie pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too disgusted to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of her were looking stony faced. From where she sat, Harriet could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek. Prince looked as though someone had just fed her a large beaker of Skele Gro. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may I thank the forty six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all—and it doesn’t end here!” 

Lockhart clapped her hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps. 

“My friendly, card carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Prince to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” 

Professor Flitwick buried her face in her hands. Prince was looking as though the first person to ask her for a Love Potion would be force fed poison. 

“Please, Hermes, tell me you weren’t one of the forty six, said Ronnie as they left the Great Hall for their first lesson. Hermes suddenly became very interested in searching his bag for his schedule and didn’t answer.

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs caught up with Harriet. 

“Oy, you! ’Arriet Evans!” shouted a particularly grim looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Harriet. 

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line of first years, which happened to include Jerry Prewett, Harriet tried to escape. The dwarf, however, cut her way through the crowd by kicking people’s shins, and reached her before she’d gone two paces. 

“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arriet Evans in person,” she said, twanging her harp in a threatening sort of way. 

“Not here,” Harriet hissed, trying to escape. 

“Stay still!” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of Harriet’s bag and pulling her back. 

“Let me go!” Harriet snarled, tugging. 

With a loud ripping noise, her bag split in two. Her books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and her ink bottle smashed over everything. 

Harriet scrambled around, trying to pick it all up before the dwarf started singing, causing something of a holdup in the corridor. 

“What’s going on here?” came the cold, drawling voice of Dahlia Black. Harriet started stuffing everything feverishly into her ripped bag, desperate to get away before Black could hear her musical valentine. 

“What’s all this commotion?” said another familiar voice as Penelope Prewett arrived. 

Losing her head, Harriet tried to make a run for it, but the dwarf seized her around the knees and brought her crashing to the floor. 

“Right,” she said, sitting on Harriet’s ankles. “Here is your singing valentine: 

Her eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,  
Her hair is as dark as a blackboard.  
I wish she was mine, she’s really divine,  
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.” 

Harriet would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, she got up, her feet numb from the weight of the dwarf, as Penelope Prewett did her best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth. 

“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now,” she said, shooing some of the younger students away. “And you, Black—”

Harriet, glancing over, saw Black stoop and snatch up something. Leering, she showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Harriet realized that she’d got Riddle’s diary. 

“Give that back,” said Harriet quietly. 

“Wonder what Evans’ written in this?” said Black, who obviously hadn’t noticed the year on the cover and thought she had Hariet’s own diary. A hush fell over the onlookers. Jerry was staring from the diary to Harriet, looking terrified. 

“Hand it over, Black,” said Penelope sternly. 

“When I’ve had a look,” said Black, waving the diary tauntingly at Harriet. 

Penelope said, “As a school prefect—” but Harriet had lost her temper. She pulled out her wand and shouted, “Expelliarmus!” and just as Prince had disarmed Lockhart, so Black found the diary shooting out of her hand into the air. Ronnie, grinning broadly, caught it. 

“Harriet!” said Penelope loudly. “No magic in the corridors. I’ll have to report this, you know!” 

But Harriet didn’t care, she was one up on Black, and that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day. Black was looking furious, and as Jerry passed her to enter his classroom, she yelled spitefully after him, “I don’t think Evans liked your valentine much!” 

Jerry covered his face with his hands and ran into class. Snarling, Ronnie pulled out her wand, too, but Harriet pulled her away. Ronnie didn’t need to spend the whole of Charms belching slugs. 

It wasn’t until they had reached Professor Flitwick’s class that Harriet noticed something rather odd about Riddle’s diary. All her other books were drenched in scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it. She tried to point this out to Ronnie, but Ronnie was having trouble with her wand again; large purple bubbles were blossoming out of the end, and she wasn’t much interested in anything else. 

Harriet went to bed before anyone else in her dormitory that night. This was partly because she didn’t think she could stand Frankie and Georgina singing, “her eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad” one more time, and partly because she wanted to examine Riddle’s diary again, and knew that Ronnie thought she was wasting her time.

Harriet sat on her four-poster and flicked through the blank pages, not one of which had a trace of scarlet ink on it. Then she pulled a new bottle out of her bedside cabinet, dipped her quill into it, and dropped a blot onto the first page of the diary. 

The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished. Excited, Harriet loaded up her quill a second time and wrote, “My name is Harriet Evans.” 

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something happened. 

Oozing back out of the page, in her very own ink, came words Harriet had never written. 

“Hello, Harriet Evans. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?” 

These words, too, faded away, but not before Harriet had started to scribble back. 

“Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.” 

She waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply. 

“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read.” 

“What do you mean?” Harriet scrawled, blotting the page in her excitement. 

“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” 

“That’s where I am now,” Harriet wrote quickly. “I’m at Hogwarts, and horrible stuff’s been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?” 

Her heart was hammering. Riddle’s reply came quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew. 

“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who’d opened the Chamber and she was expelled. But the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the boy had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned.” 

Harriet nearly upset her ink bottle in her hurry to write back. 

“It’s happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who’s behind them. Who was it last time?”

“I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle’s reply. “You don’t have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught her. “ 

Harriet hesitated, her quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean? How could she be taken inside somebody else’s memory? She glanced nervously at the door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When she looked back at the diary, she saw fresh words forming. 

“Let me show you.” 

Harriet paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters. 

“OK.” 

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harriet saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a miniscule television screen. Her hands trembling slightly, she raised the book to press her eye against the little window, and before she knew what was happening, she was tilting forward; the window was widening, she felt her body leave her bed, and she was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color and shadow. 

She felt her feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around her came suddenly into focus. 

She knew immediately where she was. This circular room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore’s office—but it wasn’t Dumbledore who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail looking wizard, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Harriet had never seen this man before. 

“I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “I didn’t mean to butt in—” 

But the wizard didn’t look up. He continued to read, frowning slightly. Harriet drew nearer to her desk and stammered, “Er—I’ll just go, shall I?” 

Still the wizard ignored her. He didn’t seem even to have heard her. Thinking that the wizard might be deaf, Harriet raised her voice. 

“Sorry I disturbed you. I’ll go now,” she half shouted. 

The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, walked past Harriet without glancing at her, and went to draw the curtains at her window. 

The sky outside the window was ruby red; it seemed to be sunset. The wizard went back to the desk, sat down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching the door. 

Harriet looked around the office. No Fawkes the phoenix—no whirring silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that this unknown wizard was Headmaster, not Dumbledore, and she, Harriet, was little more than a phantom, completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago. 

There was a knock on the office door. 

“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice. 

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect’s badge was glinting on his chest. He was much taller than Harriet, but he, too, had jet black hair. 

“Ah, Riddle,” said the Headmaster. 

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said Riddle. He looked nervous. 

“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I’ve just been reading the letter you sent me. 

“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly. 

“My dear boy,” said Dippet kindly, “I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?” 

“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that—to that—” 

“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?” said Dippet curiously. 

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly. 

“You are Muggle-born?” 

“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch mother.” 

“And are both your parents—?” 

“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me—Tom after my father, Morlova after my grandmother.” 

Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically. 

“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “Special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…” 

“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and Harriet’s heart leapt, and she moved closer, scared of missing anything. 

“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy… the death of that poor little girl… You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the er—source of all this unpleasantness…” 

Riddle’s eyes had widened. 

“Sir—if the person was caught—if it all stopped—”

“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his chair. “Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?” 

“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly. 

But Harriet was sure it was the same sort of “no” that she himself had given Dumbledore. 

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed. 

“You may go, Tom…” 

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harriet followed him. 

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harriet, watching him. Harriet could tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed. 

Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off, Harriet gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn’t see another person until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall witch with long, sweeping auburn hair called to Riddle from the marble staircase. 

“What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?” 

Harriet gaped at the wizard. She was none other than a fifty year younger Dumbledore. 

“I had to see the headmaster, ma’am,” said Riddle. 

“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harriet knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…” 

She sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched her walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harriet in hot pursuit. 

But to Harriet’s disappointment, Riddle led her not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Harriet had Potions with Prince. The torches hadn’t been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harriet could only just see him, standing stock still by the door, watching the passage outside. 

It felt to Harriet that they were there for at least an hour. All she could see was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue. And just when Harriet had stopped feeling expectant and tense and started wishing she could return to the present, she heard something move beyond the door. 

Someone was creeping along the passage. She heard whoever it was pass the dungeon where she and Riddle were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged through the door and followed, Harriet tiptoeing behind him, forgetting that she couldn’t be heard.

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Harriet heard a door creak open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper. 

“C’mon… gotta get yeh outta here… C’mon now… in the box…” 

There was something familiar about that voice. 

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harriet stepped out behind him. She could see the dark outline of a huge girl who was crouching in front of an open door, a very large box next to it. 

“Evening, Ruby,” said Riddle sharply. 

The girl slammed the door shut and stood up. 

“What yer doin’ down here, Tom?” 

Riddle stepped closer. 

“It’s all over,” he said. “I’m going to have to turn you in, Ruby. They’re talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don’t stop.” 

“What d’yeh—” 

“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don’t make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and—” 

“It never killed no one!” said the large girl, backing against the closed door. From behind her, Harriet could hear a funny rustling and clicking. 

“Come on, Ruby,” said Riddle, moving yet closer. “The dead boy’s parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their son is slaughtered…” 

“It wasn’t him!” roared the girl, her voice echoing in the dark passage. “He wouldn’! He never!” 

“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand. 

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the large girl flew open with such force it knocked her into the wall opposite. And out of it came something that made Harriet let out a long, piercing scream unheard by anyone— 

A vast, low slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor sharp pincers—Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the huge girl leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, “NOOOOOOO!” 

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harriet felt himself falling and, with a crash, she landed spread eagled on her four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on her stomach.

Before she had had time to regain her breath, the dormitory door opened and Ronnie came in. 

“There you are,” she said. 

Harriet sat up. She was sweating and shaking. 

“What’s up?” said Ronnie, looking at her with concern. 

“It was Hagrid, Ronnie. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago.”


	14. Cornetta Fudge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Harriet, Ronnie, and Hermes had always known that Hagrid had an unfortunate liking for large and monstrous creatures. During their first year at Hogwarts she had tried to raise a dragon in her little wooden house, and it would be a long time before they forgot the giant, threeheaded dog she’d christened “Fluffy.” And if, as a girl, Hagrid had heard that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle, Harriet was sure she’d have gone to any lengths for a glimpse of it. She’d probably thought it was a shame that the monster had been cooped up so long, and thought it deserved the chance to stretch its many legs; Harriet could just imagine the thirteen year old Hagrid trying to fit a leash and collar on it. But she was equally certain that Hagrid would never have meant to kill anybody. 

Harriet half wished she hadn’t found out how to work Riddle’s diary. Again and again Ronnie and Hermes made her recount what she’d seen, until she was heartily sick of telling them and sick of the long, circular conversations that followed. 

“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said Hermes. “Maybe it was some other monster that was attacking people…” 

“How many monsters d’you think this place can hold?” Ronnie asked dully. 

“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said Harriet miserably. “And the attacks must’ve stopped after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle wouldn’t have got his award.” 

Ronnie tried a different tack. 

“Riddle does sound like Penelope—who asked her to squeal on Hagrid, anyway?” 

“But the monster had killed someone, Ronnie,” said Hermes. 

“And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle orphanage if they closed Hogwarts,” said Harriet. “I don’t blame her for wanting to stay here…” 

“You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn’t you, Harriet?” 

“She was buying a Flesh Eating Slug Repellent,” said Harriet quickly.

The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermes voiced the knottiest question of all in a hesitant voice. 

“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?” 

“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ronnie. “‘Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?’” 

In the end, they decided that they would not say anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack, and as more and more days went by with no whisper from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful that they would never need to talk to him about why he had been expelled. It was now nearly four months since Justine and Nearly Headless Nick had been Petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to think that the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for good. Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Evans, you rotter” song, Eleanor Macmillan asked Harriet quite politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in Herbology one day, and in March several of the Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very happy. 

“The moment they start trying to move into each other’s pots, we’ll know they’re fully mature,” he told Harriet. “Then we’ll be able to revive those poor people in the hospital wing.” 

The second years were given something new to think about during their Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year, a matter that Hermes, at least, took very seriously. 

“it could affect our whole future,” he told Harriet and Ronnie as they pored over lists of new subjects, marking them with checks. 

“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harriet. 

“We can’t,” said Ronnie gloomily. “We keep all our old subjects, or I’d’ve ditched Defense Against the Dark Arts.” 

“But that’s very important!” said Hermes, shocked. 

“Not the way Lockhart teaches it,” said Ronnie. “I haven’t learned anything from her except not to set pixies loose.” 

Netta Fortesque had been sent letters from all the witches and wizards in her family, all giving her different advice on what to choose. Confused and worried, she sat reading the subject lists with her tongue poking out, asking people whether they thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than the study of Ancient Runes. Delia Thomas, who, like Harriet, had grown up with Muggles, ended up closing her eyes and jabbing her wand at the list, then picking the subjects it landed on. Hermes took nobody’s advice but signed up for everything.

Harriet smiled grimly to herself at the thought of what Aunt Verona and Uncle Peter would say if she tried to discuss her career in wizardry with them. Not that she didn’t get any guidance: Penelope Prewett was eager to share her experience. 

“Depends where you want to go, Harriet,” she said. “It’s never too early to think about the future, so I’d recommend Divination. People say Muggle Studies is a soft option, but I personally think wizards should have a thorough understanding of the non magical community, particularly if they’re thinking of working in close contact with them—look at my mother, she has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My sister Charlie was always more of an outdoor type, so she went for Care of Magical Creatures. Play to your strengths, Harriet.” 

But the only thing Harriet felt she was really good at was Quidditch. In the end, she chose the same new subjects as Ronnie, feeling that if she was lousy at them, at least she’d have someone friendly to help her. 

Gryffindor’s next Quidditch match would be against Hufflepuff. Wood was insisting on team practices every night after dinner, so that Harriet barely had time for anything but Quidditch and homework. However, the training sessions were getting better, or at least drier, and the evening before Saturday’s match she went up to her dormitory to drop off her broomstick feeling Gryffindor’s chances for the Quidditch cup had never been better. 

But her cheerful mood didn’t last long. At the top of the stairs to the dormitory, she met Netta Fortesque, who was looking frantic. 

“Harriet—I don’t know who did it—I just found—” 

Watching Harriet fearfully, Netta pushed open the door. 

The contents of Harriet’s trunk had been thrown everywhere. Her cloak lay ripped on the floor. The bedclothes had been pulled off her four-poster and the drawer had been pulled out of her bedside cabinet, the contents strewn over the mattress. 

Harriet walked over to the bed, open mouthed, treading on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls. As she and Netta pulled the blankets back onto her bed, Ronnie, Delia, and Sinead came in. Delia swore loudly. 

“What happened, Harriet?” 

“No idea,” said Harriet. But Ronnie was examining Harriet’s robes. All the pockets were hanging out.

“Someone’s been looking for something,” said Ronnie. “Is there anything missing?” 

Harriet started to pick up all her things and throw them into her trunk. It was only as she threw the last of the Lockhart books back into it that she realized what wasn’t there. 

“Riddle’s diary’s gone,” she said in an undertone to Ronnie. 

“What?” 

Harriet jerked her head toward the dormitory door and Ronnie followed him out. They hurried down to the Gryffindor common room, which was half empty, and joined Hermes, who was sitting alone, reading a book called Ancient Runes Made Easy. 

Hermes looked aghast at the news. 

“But—only a Gryffindor could have stolen—nobody else knows our password—” 

“Exactly,” said Harriet. 

They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze. 

“Perfect Quidditch conditions!” said Wood enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the team’s plates with scrambled eggs. “Harriet, buck up there, you need a decent breakfast.”

Harriet had been staring down the packed Gryffindor table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle’s diary was right in front of her eyes. Hermes had been urging her to report the robbery, but Harriet didn’t like the idea. She’d have to tell a teacher all about the diary, and how many people knew why Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago? She didn’t want to be the one who brought it all up again. 

As she left the Great Hall with Ronnie and Hermes to go and collect her Quidditch things, another very serious worry was added to Harriet’s growing list. She had just set foot on the marble staircase when she heard it yet again. 

“Kill this time… let me rip… tear…” 

She shouted aloud and Ronnie and Hermes both jumped away from her in alarm. 

“The voice!” said Harriet,—looking over her shoulder. “I just heard it again—didn’t you?” 

Ronnie shook his head, wide eyed. Hermes, however, clapped a hand to his forehead. 

“Harriet—I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve got to go to the library!” And he sprinted away, up the stairs. 

“What does he understand?” said Harriet distractedly, still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had come from. 

“Loads more than I do,” said Ronnie, shaking her head. 

“But why’s he got to go to the library?” 

“Because that’s what Hermes does,” said Ronnie, shrugging. “When in doubt, go to the library.” 

Harriet stood, irresolute, trying to catch the voice again, but people were now emerging from the Great Hall behind her, talking loudly, exiting through the front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch. 

“You’d better get moving,” said Ronnie. “It’s nearly eleven—the match—” 

Harriet raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected her Nimbus Two Thousand, and joined the large crowd swarming across the grounds, but her mind was still in the castle along with the bodiless voice, and as she pulled on her scarlet robes in the locker room, her only comfort was that everyone was now outside to watch the game. 

The teams walked onto the field to tumultuous applause. Olivia Wood took off for a warm up flight around the goal posts; Master Hooch released the balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow, were standing in a huddle, having a last minute discussion of tactics. 

Harriet was just mounting her broom when Professor McGonagall came half marching, half running across the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone.

Harriet’s heart dropped like a stone. 

“This match has been cancelled,” Professor McGonagall called through the megaphone, addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and shouts. Olivia Wood, looking devastated, landed and ran toward Professor McGonagall without getting off her broomstick. 

“But, Professor!” she shouted. “We’ve got to play—the cup—Gryffindor—” 

Professor McGonagall ignored her and continued to shout through his megaphone: “All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please!” 

Then he lowered the megaphone and beckoned Harriet over to him. 

“Evans, I think you’d better come with me…” 

Wondering how he could possibly suspect her this time, Harriet saw Ronnie detach herself from the complaining crowd; she came running up to them as they set off toward the castle. To Harriet’s surprise, Professor McGonagall didn’t object. 

“Yes, perhaps you’d better come, too, Prewett…” 

Some of the students swarming around them were grumbling about the match being canceled; others looked worried. Harriet and Ronnie followed Professor McGonagall back into the school and up the marble staircase. But they weren’t taken to anybody’s office this time. 

“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor McGonagall in a surprisingly gentle voice as they approached the infirmary. “There has been another attack… another double attack.” 

Harriet’s insides did a horrible somersault. Professor McGonagall pushed the door open and she and Ronnie entered. 

Master Pomfrey was bending over a fifth year girl with long, curly hair. Harriet recognized her as the Ravenclaw they’d accidentally asked for directions to the Slytherin common room. And on the bed next to her was— 

“Hermes!” Ronnie groaned. 

Hermes lay utterly still, his eyes open and glassy. 

“They were found near the library,” said Professor McGonagall. “I don’t suppose either of you can explain this? It was on the floor next to them…” 

He was holding up a small, circular mirror. 

Harriet and Ronnie shook their heads, both staring at Hermes. 

“I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Professor McGonagall heavily. “I need to address the students in any case. 

“All students will return to their House common rooms by six o’clock in the evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time. You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All further Quidditch training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities.”

The Gryffindors packed inside the common room listened to Professor McGonagall in silence. He rolled up the parchment from which he had been reading and said in a somewhat choked voice, “I need hardly add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely that the school will be closed unless the culprit behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone who thinks they might know anything about them to come forward.” 

He climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait hole, and the Gryffindors began talking immediately. 

“That’s two Gryffindors down, not counting a Gryffindor ghost, one Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff, “ said the Prewett twins’ friend Leah Jordan, counting on her fingers. “Haven’t any of the teachers noticed that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn’t it obvious all this stuff’s coming from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin, the monster of Slytherin—why don’t they just chuck all the Slytherins out?” she roared, to nods and scattered applause. 

Penelope Prewett was sitting in a chair behind Leah, but for once she didn’t seem keen to make her views heard. She was looking pale and stunned. 

“Penelope’s in shock,” Georgina told Harriet quietly. “That Ravenclaw girl—Percy Clearwater—he’s a prefect. I don’t think she thought the monster would dare attack a prefect.” 

But Harriet was only half listening. She didn’t seem to be able to get rid of the picture of Hermes, lying on the hospital bed as though carved out of stone. And if the culprit wasn’t caught soon, she was looking at a lifetime back with the Evans. Tom Riddle had turned Hagrid in because he was faced with the prospect of a Muggle orphanage if the school closed. Harriet now knew exactly how he had felt. 

“What’re we going to do?” said Ronnie quietly in Harriet’s ear. “D’you think they suspect Hagrid?” 

“We’ve got to go and talk to her,” said Harriet, making up her mind. “I can’t believe it’s her this time, but if she set the monster loose last time she’ll know how to get inside the Chamber of Secrets, and that’s a start.”

“But McGonagall said we’ve got to stay in our tower unless we’re in class—” 

“I think,” said Harriet, more quietly still, “it’s time to get my mum’s old cloak out again.” 

Harriet had inherited just one thing from her father: a long and silvery Invisibility Cloak. It was their only chance of sneaking out of the school to visit Hagrid without anyone knowing about it. They went to bed at the usual time, waited until Netta, Delia, and Sinead had stopped discussing the Chamber of Secrets and finally fallen asleep, then got up, dressed again, and threw the cloak over themselves. 

The journey through the dark and deserted castle corridors wasn’t enjoyable. Harriet, who had wandered the castle at night several times before, had never seen it so crowded after sunset. Teachers, prefects, and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs, staring around for any unusual activity. Their Invisibility Cloak didn’t stop them making any noise, and there was a particularly tense moment when Ronnie stubbed her toe only yards from the spot where Prince stood standing guard. Thankfully, Prince sneezed at almost exactly the moment Ronnie swore. It was with relief that they reached the oak front doors and eased them open. 

It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the lit windows of Hagrid’s house and pulled off the cloak only when they were right outside her front door. 

Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open. They found themselves face to face with her aiming a crossbow at them. Fang the boarhound barked loudly behind her. 

“Oh,” she said, lowering the weapon and staring at them. “What’re you two doin’ here?” 

“What’s that for?” said Harriet, pointing at the crossbow as they stepped inside. 

“Nothin’—nothin’—” Hagrid muttered. “I’ve bin expectin’—doesn’ matter—Sit down—I’ll make tea—” 

She hardly seemed to know what she was doing. She nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a nervous jerk of her massive hand. 

“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harriet. “Did you hear about Hermes?” 

“Oh, I heard, all righ’,” said Hagrid, a slight break in her voice. 

She kept glancing nervously at the windows. She poured them both large mugs of boiling water (she had forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting a slab of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock on the door.

Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harriet and Ronnie exchanged panic stricken looks, then threw the Invisibility Cloak back over themselves and retreated into a corner. Hagrid checked that they were hidden, seized her crossbow, and flung open her door once more. 

“Good evening, Hagrid.” 

It was Dumbledore. She entered, looking deadly serious, and was followed by a second, very odd looking woman. 

The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under her arm she carried a lime green bowler. 

“That’s Mum’s boss!” Ronnie breathed. “Cornetta Fudge, the Minister of Magic!” Harriet elbowed Ronnie hard to make her shut up. 

Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. She dropped into one of her chairs and looked from Dumbledore to Cornetta Fudge. 

“Bad business, Hagrid,” said Fudge in rather clipped tones. “Very bad business. Had to come. Four attacks on Muggle-borns. Things’ve gone far enough. Ministry’s got to act.” 

“I never,” said Hagrid, looking imploringly at Dumbledore. “You know I never, Professor Dumbledore, ma’am—” 

“I want it understood, Cornetta, that Hagrid has my full confidence,” said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge. 

“Look, Ariana,” said Fudge, uncomfortably. “Hagrid’s record’s against her. Ministry’s got to do something—the school governors have been in touch—” 

“Yet again, Cornetta, I tell you that taking Hagrid away will not help in the slightest,” said Dumbledore. Her blue eyes were full of a fire Harriet had never seen before. 

“Look at it from my point of view,” said Fudge, fidgeting with her bowler. “I’m under a lot of pressure. Got to be seen to be doing something. If it turns out it wasn’t Hagrid, she’ll be back and no more said. But I’ve got to take her. Got to. Wouldn’t be doing my duty—” 

“Take me?” said Hagrid, who was trembling. “Take me where?” 

“For a short stretch only,” said Fudge, not meeting Hagrid’s eyes. “Not a punishment, Hagrid, more a precaution. If someone else is caught, you’ll be let out with a full apology—” 

“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid. 

Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the door. 

Dumbledore answered it. It was Harriet’s turn for an elbow in the ribs; she’d let out an audible gasp.

Mrs. Luanna Black strode into Hagrid’s hut, swathed in a long black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and satisfied smile. Fang started to growl. 

“Already here, Fudge,” she said approvingly. “Good, good…” 

“What’re you doin’ here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get outta my house!” 

“My dear woman, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being inside your—er—d’you call this a house?” said Luanna Black, sneering as she looked around the small cabin. “I simply called at the school and was told that the headmistress was here.” 

“And what exactly did you want with me, Luanna?” said Dumbledore. She spoke politely, but the fire was still blazing in her blue eyes. 

“Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Black lazily, taking out a long roll of parchment, “but the governors feel it’s time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension—you’ll find all twelve signatures on it. I’m afraid we feel you’re losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two more this afternoon, wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school.” 

“Oh, now, see here, Luanna,” said Fudge, looking alarmed, “Dumbledore suspended—no, no—last thing we want just now…” 

“The appointment—or suspension—of the headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge,” said Mrs. Black smoothly. “And as Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks—”

“See here, Black, if Dumbledore can’t stop them,” said Fudge, whose upper lip was sweating now, “I mean to say, who can?” 

“That remains to be seen,” said Mrs. Black with a nasty smile. “But as all twelve of us have voted—” 

Hagrid leapt to her feet, her shaggy black head grazing the ceiling. 

“An’ how many did yeh have ter threaten an’ blackmail before they agreed, Black, eh?” she roared. 

“Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid,” said Mrs. Black. “I would advise you not to shout at the Azkaban guards like that. They won’t like it at all.” 

“Yeh can’ take Dumbledore!” yelled Hagrid, making Fang the boarhound cower and whimper in his basket. “Take her away, an’ the Muggle-borns won’ stand a chance! There’ll be killin’ next!” 

“Calm yourself, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. She looked at Luanna Black. 

“If the governors want my removal, Luanna, I shall of course step aside—” 

“But—” stuttered Fudge. 

“No!” growled Hagrid. 

Dumbledore had not taken her bright blue eyes off Luanna’s cold gray ones. 

“However,” said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly and clearly so that none of them could miss a word, “you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.” 

For a second, Harriet was almost sure Dumbledore’s eyes flickered towards the corner where she and Ronnie stood hidden. 

“Admirable sentiments,” said Black, bowing. “We shall all miss your—er—highly individual way of running things, Ariana, and only hope that your successor will manage to prevent any—ah—‘killin’s.’” 

She strode to the cabin door, opened it and bowed Dumbledore out. Fudge, fiddling with her bowler, waited for Hagrid to go ahead of her, but Hagrid stood her ground, took a deep breath and said carefully, “If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff, all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders. That’d lead ’em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.” 

Fudge stared at her in amazement. 

“All right, I’m comin’,” said Hagrid, pulling on her moleskin overcoat. But as she was about to follow Fudge through the door, she stopped again and said loudly, “An’ someone’ll need ter feed Fang while I’m away.” The door banged shut and Ronnie pulled the Invisibility Cloak off.

“We’re in trouble now,” she said hoarsely. “No Dumbledore. They might as well close the school tonight. There’ll be an attack a day with her gone.” 

Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door.


	15. Aragog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

Summer was creeping over the grounds around the castle; sky and lake alike turned periwinkle blue and flowers large as cabbages burst into bloom in the greenhouses. But with no Hagrid visible from the castle windows, striding the grounds with Fang at her heels, the scene didn’t look right to Harriet; no better, in fact, than the inside of the castle, where things were so horribly wrong. 

Harriet and Ronnie had tried to visit Hermes, but visitors were now barred from the hospital wing. 

“We’re taking no more chances,” Master Pomfrey told them severely through a crack in the infirmary door. “No, I’m sorry, there’s every chance the attacker might come back to finish these people off…” 

With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never before, so that the sun warming the castle walls outside seemed to stop at the mullioned windows. There was barely a face to be seen in the school that didn’t look worried and tense, and any laughter that rang through the corridors sounded shrill and unnatural and was quickly stifled. 

Harriet constantly repeated Dumbledore’s final words to herself “I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me… Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.” But what good were these words? Who exactly were they supposed to ask for help, when everyone was just as confused and scared as they were? 

Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was far easier to understand—the trouble was, there didn’t seem to be a single spider left in the castle to follow. Harriet looked everywhere she went, helped (rather reluctantly) by Ronnie. They were hampered, of course, by the fact that they weren’t allowed to wander off on their own but had to move around the castle in a pack with the other Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students seemed glad that they were being shepherded from class to class by teachers, but Harriet found it very irksome. 

One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere of terror and suspicion. Dahlia Black was strutting around the school as though she had just been appointed Head Girl. Harriet didn’t realize what whe was so pleased about until the Potions lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and Hagrid had left, when, sitting right behind Black, Harriet overheard her gloating to Crabbe and Goyle.

“I always thought Mother might be the one who got rid of Dumbledore,” she said, not troubling to keep her voice down. “I told you she thinks Dumbledore’s the worst headmistress the school’s ever had. Maybe we’ll get a decent headmistress now. Someone who won’t want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall won’t last long, he’s only filling in…” 

Prince swept past Harriet, making no comment about Hermes’ empty seat and cauldron. 

“Ma’am,” said Black loudly. “Ma’am, why don’t you apply for the headmistress’s job?” 

“Now, now, Black,” said Prince, though she couldn’t suppress a thinlipped smile. “Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the governors. I daresay she’ll be back with us soon enough.” 

“Yeah, right,” said Black, smirking. “I expect you’d have Mother’s vote, ma’am, if you wanted to apply for the job—I’ll tell Mother you’re the best teacher here, ma’am—” 

Prince smirked as she swept off around the dungeon, fortunately not spotting Sinead Finnigan, who was pretending to vomit into her cauldron. 

“I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed their bags by now,” Black went on. “Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t Granger—” 

The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at Black’s last words, Ronnie had leapt off her stool, and in the scramble to collect bags and books, her attempts to reach Black went unnoticed. 

“Let me at her,” Ronnie growled as Harriet and Dinah hung onto her arms. “I don’t care, I don’t need my wand, I’m going to kill her with my bare hands—” 

“Hurry up, I’ve got to take you all to Herbology,” barked Prince over the class’s heads, and off they marched, with Harriet, Ronnie, and Dinah bringing up the rear, Ronnie still trying to get loose. It was only safe to let go of her when Prince had seen them out of the castle and they were making their way across the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses. 

The Herbology class was very subdued; there were now two missing from their number, Justine and Hermes. 

Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the Abyssinian Shrivelfigs. Harriet went to tip an armful of withered stalks onto the compost heap and found herself face to face with Eleanor Macmillan. Eleanor took a deep breath and said, very formally, “I just want to say, Harriet, that I’m sorry I ever suspected you. I know you’d never attack Hermes Granger, and I apologize for all the stuff I said. We’re all in the same boat now, and, well—” she held out a pudgy hand, and Harriet shook it.

Eleanor and her friend Hancock came to work at the same Shrivelfig as Harriet and Ronnie. 

“That Dahlia Black character,” said Eleanor, breaking off dead twigs, “she seems very pleased about all this, doesn’t she? D’you know, I think she might be Slytherin’s heir.” 

“That’s clever of you,” said Ronnie, who didn’t seem to have forgiven Eleanor as readily as Harriet. 

“Do you think it’s Black, Harriet?” Eleanor asked. 

“No,” said Harriet, so firmly that Eleanor and Hancock stared. 

A second later, Harriet spotted something. 

Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground on the other side of the glass, moving in an unnaturally straight line as though taking the shortest route to a prearranged meeting. Harriet hit Ronnie over the hand with her pruning shears. 

“Ouch! What’re you—” 

Harriet pointed out the spiders, following their progress with her eyes screwed up against the sun. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Ronnie, trying, and failing, to look pleased. “But we can’t follow them now—” 

Eleanor and Hancock were listening curiously. 

Harriet’s eyes narrowed as she focused on the spiders. If they pursued their fixed course, there could be no doubt about where they would end up. 

“Looks like they’re heading for the Forbidden Forest…” 

And Ronnie looked even unhappier about that. 

At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the class to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harriet and Ronnie lagged behind the others so they could talk out of earshot. 

“We’ll have to use the Invisibility Cloak again,” Harriet told Ronnie. “We can take Fang with us. He’s used to going into the forest with Hagrid, he might be some help.” 

“Right,” said Ronnie, who was twirling her wand nervously in her fingers. “Er—aren’t there—aren’t there supposed to be werewolves in the forest?” she added as they took their usual places at the back of Lockhart’s classroom. 

Preferring not to answer that question, Harriet said, “There are good things in there, too. The centaurs are all right, and the unicorns…”

Ronnie had never been into the Forbidden Forest before. Harriet had entered it only once and had hoped never to do so again. 

Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared at her. Every other teacher in the place was looking grimmer than usual, but Lockhart appeared nothing short of buoyant. 

“Come now,” she cried, beaming around her. “Why all these long faces?” People swapped exasperated looks, but nobody answered. 

“Don’t you people realize,” said Lockhart, speaking slowly, as though they were all a bit dim, “the danger has passed! The culprit has been taken away—” 

“Says who?” said Delia Thomas loudly. 

“My dear young woman, the Minister of Magic wouldn’t have taken Hagrid if she hadn’t been one hundred percent sure that she was guilty,” said Lockhart, in the tone of someone explaining that one and one made two. 

“Oh, yes she would,” said Ronnie, even more loudly than Delia. 

“I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid’s arrest than you do, Miss Prewett,” said Lockhart in a self satisfied tone. 

Ronnie started to say that she didn’t think so, somehow, but stopped in mid sentence when Harriet kicked her hard under the desk. 

“We weren’t there, remember?” Harriet muttered. 

But Lockhart’s disgusting cheeriness, her hints that she had always thought Hagrid was no good, her confidence that the whole business was now at an end, irritated Harriet so much that she yearned to throw Gadding with Ghouls right in Lockhart’s stupid face. Instead she contented herself with scrawling a note to Ronnie: Let’s do it tonight. 

Ronnie read the message, swallowed hard, and looked sideways at the empty seat usually filled by Hermes. The sight seemed to stiffen her resolve, and she nodded. 

The Gryffindor common room was always very crowded these days, because from six o’clock onward the Gryffindors had nowhere else to go. They also had plenty to talk about, with the result that the common room often didn’t empty until past midnight. 

Harriet went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of her trunk right after dinner, and spent the evening sitting on it, waiting for the room to clear. Frankie and Georgina challenged Harriet and Ronnie to a few games of Exploding Snap, and Jerry sat watching them, very subdued in Hermes’ usual chair. Harriet and Ronnie kept losing on purpose, trying to finish the games quickly, but even so, it was well past midnight when Frankie, Georgina, and Jerry finally went to bed.

Harriet and Ronnie waited for the distant sounds of two dormitory doors closing before seizing the cloak, throwing it over themselves, and climbing through the portrait hole. 

It was another difficult journey through the castle, dodging all the teachers. At last they reached the entrance hall, slid back the lock on the oak front doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any creaking, and stepped out into the moonlit grounds. 

“’Course,” said Ronnie abruptly as they strode across the black grass, “we might get to the forest and find there’s nothing to follow. Those spiders might not’ve been going there at all. I know it looked like they were moving in that sort of general direction, but…” Her voice trailed away hopefully. 

They reached Hagrid’s house, sad and sorry looking with its blank windows. When Harriet pushed the door open, Fang went mad with joy at the sight of them. Worried he might wake everyone at the castle with his deep, booming barks, they hastily fed him treacle fudge from a tin on the mantelpiece, which glued his teeth together. 

Harriet left the Invisibility Cloak on Hagrid’s table. There would be no need for it in the pitch dark forest. 

“C’mon, Fang, we’re going for a walk,” said Harriet, patting his leg, and Fang bounded happily out of the house behind them, dashed to the edge of the forest, and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree. 

Harriet took out her wand, murmured, “Lumos!” and a tiny light appeared at the end of it, just enough to let them watch the path for signs of spiders. 

“Good thinking,” said Ronnie. “I’d light mine, too, but you know—it’d probably blow up or something…” 

Harriet tapped Ronnie on the shoulder, pointing at the grass. Two solitary spiders were hurrying away from the wandlight into the shade of the trees. 

“Okay,” Ronnie sighed as though resigned to the worst, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” 

So, with Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree roots and leaves, they entered the forest. By the glow of Harriet’s wand, they followed the steady trickle of spiders moving along the path. They walked behind them for about twenty minutes, not speaking, listening hard for noises other than breaking twigs and rustling leaves. Then, when the trees had become thicker than ever, so that the stars overhead were no longer visible, and Harriet’s wand shone alone in the sea of dark, they saw their spider guides leaving the path.

Harriet paused, trying to see where the spiders were going, but everything outside her little sphere oflight was pitch black. She had never been this deep into the forest before. She could vividly remember Hagrid advising her not to leave the forest path last time she’d been in here. But Hagrid was miles away now, probably sitting in a cell in Azkaban, and she had also said to follow the spiders. 

Something wet touched Harriet’s hand and she jumped backward, crushing Ronnie’s foot, but it was only Fang’s nose. 

“What d’you reckon?” Harriet said to Ronnie, whose eyes she could just make out, reflecting the light from her wand. 

“We’ve come this far,” said Ronnie. 

So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders into the trees. They couldn’t move very quickly now; there were tree roots and stumps in their way, barely visible in the near blackness. Harriet could feel Fang’s hot breath on her hand. More than once, they had to stop, so that Harriet could crouch down and find the spiders in the wandlight. 

They walked for what seemed like at least half an hour, their robes snagging on low slung branches and brambles. After a while, they noticed that the ground seemed to be sloping downward, though the trees were as thick as ever. 

Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark, making both Harriet and Ronnie jump out of their skins. 

“What?” said Ronnie loudly, looking around into the pitch dark, and gripping Harriet’s elbow very hard. 

“There’s something moving over there,” Harriet breathed. “Listen… sounds like something big…” 

They listened. Some distance to their right, the something big was snapping branches as it carved a path through the trees. 

“Oh, no,” said Ronnie. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh—” 

“Shut up,” said Harriet frantically. “It’ll hear you.” 

“Hear me?” said Ronnie in an unnaturally high voice. “It’s already heard Fang!” 

The darkness seemed to be pressing on their eyeballs as they stood, terrified, waiting. There was a strange rumbling noise and then silence. 

“What d’you think it’s doing?” said Harriet. 

“Probably getting ready to pounce,” said Ronnie. 

They waited, shivering, hardly daring to move. 

“D’you think it’s gone?” Harriet whispered.

“Dunno—” 

Then, to their right, came a sudden blaze of light, so bright in the darkness that both of them flung up their hands to shield their eyes. Fang yelped and tried to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and yelped even louder. 

“Harriet!” Ronnie shouted, her voice breaking with relief. “Harriet, it’s our car!” 

“What?” 

“Come on!” 

Harriet blundered after Ronnie toward the light, stumbling and tripping, and a moment later they had emerged into a clearing. 

Mrs. Prewett’s car was standing, empty, in the middle of a circle of thick trees under a roof of dense branches, its headlights ablaze. As Ronnie walked, open mouthed, toward it, it moved slowly toward her, exactly like a large, turquoise dog greeting its owner. 

“It’s been here all the time!” said Ronnie delightedly, walking around the car. “Look at it. The forest’s turned it wild…” 

The sides of the car were scratched and smeared with mud. Apparently it had taken to trundling around the forest on its own. Fang didn’t seem at all keen on it; he kept close to Harriet, who could feel him quivering. Her breathing slowing down again, Harriet stuffed her wand back into her robes. 

“And we thought it was going to attack us!” said Ronnie, leaning against the car and patting it. “I wondered where it had gone!” 

Harriet squinted around on the floodlit ground for signs of more spiders, but they had all scuttled away from the glare of the headlights. 

“We’ve lost the trail,” she said. “C’mon, let’s go and find them.” 

Ronnie didn’t speak. She didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on a point some ten feet above the forest floor, right behind Harriet. Her face was livid with terror. 

Harriet didn’t even have time to turn around. There was a loud clicking noise and suddenly she felt something long and hairy seize her around the middle and lift her off the ground, so that she was hanging facedown. Struggling, terrified, she heard more clicking, and saw Ronnie’s legs leave the ground, too, heard Fang whimpering and howling—next moment, she was being swept away into the dark trees. 

Head hanging, Harriet saw that what had hold of here was marching on six immensely long, hairy legs, the front two clutching her tightly below a pair of shining black pincers. Behind her, she could hear another of the creatures, no doubt carrying Ronnie. They were moving into the very heart of the forest. Harriet could hear Fang fighting to free herself from a third monster, whining loudly, but Harriet couldn’t have yelled even if she had wanted to; she seemed to have left her voice back with the car in the clearing.

She never knew how long she was in the creature’s clutches; she only knew that the darkness suddenly lifted enough for her to see that the leaf strewn ground was now swarming with spiders. Craning her neck sideways, she realized that they had reached the ridge of a vast hollow, a hollow that had been cleared of trees, so that the stars shone brightly onto the worst scene she had ever laid eyes on. 

Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the leaves below. Spiders the size of carthorses, eight eyed, eight legged, black, hairy, gigantic. The massive specimen that was carrying Harriet made its way down the steep slope toward a misty, domed web in the very center of the hollow, while its fellows closed in all around it, clicking their pincers excitedly at the sight of its load. 

Harriet fell to the ground on all fours as the spider released her. Ronnie and Fang thudded down next to her. Fang wasn’t howling anymore, but cowering silently on the spot. Ronnie looked exactly like Harriet felt. Her mouth was stretched wide in a kind of silent scream and her eyes were popping. 

Harriet suddenly realized that the spider that had dropped her was saying something. It had been hard to tell, because he clicked his pincers with every word he spoke. 

“Aragog!” it called. “Aragog!” 

And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a spider the size of a small elephant emerged, very slowly. There was gray in the black of his body and legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head was milky white. He was blind. 

“What is it?” he said, clicking his pincers rapidly. 

“Women,” clicked the spider who had caught Harriet. 

“Is it Hagrid?” said Aragog, moving closer, his eight milky eyes wandering vaguely. 

“Strangers,” clicked the spider who had brought Ronnie. 

“Kill them,” clicked Aragog fretfully. “I was sleeping…” 

“We’re friends of Hagrid’s,” Harriet shouted. Her heart seemed to have left her chest to pound in her throat. 

Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all around the hollow. 

Aragog paused. 

“Hagrid has never sent women into our hollow before,” he said slowly. 

“Hagrid’s in trouble,” said Harriet, breathing very fast. “That’s why we’ve come.”

“In trouble?” said the aged spider, and Harriet thought she heard concern beneath the clicking pincers. “But why has she sent you?” 

Harriet thought of getting to her feet but decided against it; she didn’t think her legs would support her. So she spoke from the ground, as calmly as she could. 

“They think, up at the school, that Hagrid’s been setting a—a—something on students. They’ve taken her to Azkaban.” 

Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around the hollow the sound was echoed by the crowd of spiders; it was like applause, except applause didn’t usually make Harriet feel sick with fear. 

“But that was years ago,” said Aragog fretfully. “Years and years ago. I remember it well. That’s why they made her leave the school. They believed that I was the monster that dwells in what they call the Chamber of Secrets. They thought that Hagrid had opened the Chamber and set me free.” 

“And you… you didn’t come from the Chamber of Secrets?” said Harriet, who could feel cold sweat on her forehead. 

“I!” said Aragog, clicking angrily. “I was not born in the castle. I come from a distant land. A traveler gave me to Hagrid when I was an egg. Hagrid was only a girl, but she cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in the castle, feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid is my good friend, and a good woman. When I was discovered, and blamed for the death of a boy, she protected me. I have lived here in the forest ever since, where Hagrid still visits me. She even found me a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown, all through Hagrid’s goodness…” Harriet summoned what remained of her courage. 

“So you never—never attacked anyone?” 

“Never,” croaked the old spider. “It would have been my instinct, but out of respect for Hagrid, I never harmed a human. The body of the boy who was killed was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any part of the castle but the cupboard in which I grew up. Our kind like the dark and the quiet…” 

“But then… Do you know what did kill that boy?” said Harriet. “Because whatever it is, it’s back and attacking people again—”

Her words were drowned by a loud outbreak of clicking and the rustling of many long legs shifting angrily; large black shapes shifted all around him. 

“The thing that lives in the castle,” said Aragog, “is an ancient creature we spiders fear above all others. Well do I remember how I pleaded with Hagrid to let me go, when I sensed the beast moving about the school.” 

“What is it?” said Harriet urgently. 

More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed to be closing in. 

“We do not speak of it!” said Aragog fiercely. “We do not name it! I never even told Hagrid the name of that dread creature, though she asked me, many times.” 

Harriet didn’t want to press the subject, not with the spiders pressing closer on all sides. Aragog seemed to be tired of talking. He was backing slowly into his domed web, but his fellow spiders continued to inch slowly toward Harriet and Ronnie. 

“We’ll just go, then,” Harriet called desperately to Aragog, hearing leaves rustling behind her. 

“Go?” said Aragog slowly. “I think not…” 

“But—but—” 

“My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my command. But I cannot deny them fresh meat, when it wanders so willingly into our midst. Good bye, friend of Hagrid.” 

Harriet spun around. Feet away, towering above her, was a solid wall of spiders, clicking, their many eyes gleaming in their ugly black heads. 

Even as she reached for her wand, Harriet knew it was no good, there were too many of them, but as she tried to stand, ready to die fighting, a loud, long note sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the hollow. 

Mrs. Prewett’s car was thundering down the slope, headlights glaring, its horn screeching, knocking spiders aside; several were thrown onto their backs, their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched to a halt in front of Harriet and Ronnie and the doors flew open. 

“Get Fang!” Harriet yelled, diving into the front seat; Ronnie seized the boarhound around the middle and threw him, yelping, into the back of the car—the doors slammed shut—Ronnie didn’t touch the accelerator but the car didn’t need her; the engine roared and they were off, hitting more spiders. They sped up the slope, out of the hollow, and they were soon crashing through the forest, branches whipping the windows as the car wound its way cleverly through the widest gaps, following a path it obviously knew. 

Harriet looked sideways at Ronnie. Her mouth was still open in the silent scream, but her eyes weren’t popping anymore.

“Are you okay?” Ronnie stared straight ahead, unable to speak. 

They smashed their way through the undergrowth, Fang howling loudly in the back seat, and Harriet saw the side mirror snap off as they squeezed past a large oak. After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees thinned, and Harriet could again see patches of sky. 

The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly thrown into the windshield. They had reached the edge of the forest. Fang flung himself at the window in his anxiety to get out, and when Harriet opened the door, he shot off through the trees to Hagrid’s house, tail between his legs. Harriet got out too, and after a minute or so, Ronnie seemed to regain the feeling in her limbs and followed, still stiff necked and staring. Harriet gave the car a grateful pat as it reversed back into the forest and disappeared from view. 

Harriet went back into Hagrid’s cabin to get the Invisibility Cloak. Fang was trembling under a blanket in his basket. When Harriet got outside again, she found Ronnie being violently sick in the pumpkin patch. 

“Follow the spiders,” said Ronnie weakly, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “I’ll never forgive Hagrid. We’re lucky to be alive.” 

“I bet she thought Aragog wouldn’t hurt friends of her,” said Harriet. 

“That’s exactly Hagrid’s problem!” said Ronnie, thumping the wall of the cabin. “She always thinks monsters aren’t as bad as they’re made out, and look where it’s got her! A cell in Azkaban!” She was shivering uncontrollably now. “What was the point of sending us in there? What have we found out, I’d like to know?” 

“That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets,” said Harriet, throwing the cloak over Ronnie and prodding her in the arm to make her walk. “She was innocent.” 

Ronnie gave a loud snort. Evidently, hatching Aragog in a cupboard wasn’t her idea of being innocent. 

As the castle loomed nearer Harriet twitched the cloak to make sure their feet were hidden, then pushed the creaking front doors ajar. They walked carefully back across the entrance hall and up the marble staircase, holding their breath as they passed corridors where watchful sentries were walking. At last they reached the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where the fire had burned itself into glowing ash. They took off the cloak and climbed the winding stair to their dormitory.

Ronnie fell onto her bed without bothering to get undressed. Harriet, however, didn’t feel very sleepy. She sat on the edge of her four-poster, thinking hard about everything Aragog had said. 

The creature that was lurking somewhere in the castle, she thought, sounded like a sort of monster Voldemort—even other monsters didn’t want to name it. But she and Ronnie were no closer to finding out what it was, or how it Petrified its victims. Even Hagrid had never known what was in the Chamber of Secrets. 

Harriet swung her legs up onto her bed and leaned back against her pillows, watching the moon glinting at her through the tower window. 

She couldn’t see what else they could do. They had hit dead ends everywhere. Riddle had caught the wrong person, the Heir of Slytherin had got off, and no one could tell whether it was the same person, or a different one, who had opened the Chamber this time. There was nobody else to ask. Harriet lay down, still thinking about what Aragog had said. 

She was becoming drowsy when what seemed like their very last hope occurred to her, and she suddenly sat bolt upright. 

“Ronnie,” she hissed through the dark, “Ronnie—” 

Ronnie woke with a yelp like Fang’s, stared wildly around, and saw Harriet. 

“Ronnie—that boy who died. Aragog said he was found in a bathroom,” said Harriet, ignoring Netta’s snuffling snores from the corner. “What if he never left the bathroom? What if he’s still there?” 

Ronnie rubbed her eyes, frowning through the moonlight. And then she understood, too. 

“You don’t think—not Moaning Mervin?”


	16. The Chamber of Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

“All those times we were in that bathroom, and he was just three toilets away,” said Ronnie bitterly at breakfast next day, “and we could’ve asked him, and now…” 

It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders. Escaping their teachers long enough to sneak into a boys’ bathroom, the boys’ bathroom, moreover, right next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be almost impossible. 

But something happened in their first lesson, Transfiguration, that drove the Chamber of Secrets out of their minds for the first time in weeks. Ten minutes into the class, Professor McGonagall told them that their exams would start on the first of June, one week from today. 

“Exams?” howled Sinead Finnigan. “We’re still getting exams?”

There was a loud bang behind Harriet as Netta Fortesque’s wand slipped, vanishing one of the legs on her desk. Professor McGonagall restored it with a wave of his own wand, and turned, frowning, to Sinead. 

“The whole point of keeping the school open at this time is for you to receive your education,” he said sternly. “The exams will therefore take place as usual, and I trust you are all studying hard.” 

Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harriet that there would be exams with the castle in this state. There was a great deal of mutinous muttering around the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl even more darkly. 

“Professor Dumbledore’s instructions were to keep the school running as normally as possible,” he said. “And that, I need hardly point out, means finding out how much you have learned this year. 

Harriet looked down at the pair of white rabbits she was supposed to be turning into slippers. What had she learned so far this year? She couldn’t seem to think of anything that would be useful in an exam. 

Ronnie looked as though she’d just been told she had to go and live in the Forbidden Forest. 

“Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” she asked Harriet, holding up her wand, which had just started whistling loudly. 

Three days before their first exam, Professor McGonagall made another announcement at breakfast. 

“I have good news,” he said, and the Great Hall, instead of falling silent, erupted. 

“Dumbledore’s coming back!” several people yelled joyfully. 

“You’ve caught the Heir of Slytherin!” squealed a girl at the Ravenclaw table. 

“Quidditch matches are back on!” roared Wood excitedly. 

When the hubbub had subsided, Professor McGonagall said, “Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who have been Petrified. I need hardly remind you all that one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with our catching the culprit.” 

There was an explosion of cheering. Harriet looked over at the Slytherin table and wasn’t at all surprised to see that Dahlia Black hadn’t joined in. Ronnie, however, was looking happier than she’d looked in days. 

“It won’t matter that we never asked Mervin, then!” she said to Harriet. “Hermes’ll probably have all the answers when they wake him up! Mind you, he’ll go crazy when he finds out we’ve got exams in three days’ time. He hasn’t studied. It might be kinder to leave him where he is till they’re over.”

Just then, Jerry Prewett came over and sat down next to Ronnie. He looked tense and nervous, and Harriet noticed that his hands were twisting in his lap. 

“What’s up?” said Ronnie, helping herself to more porridge. 

Jerry didn’t say anything, but glanced up and down the Gryffindor table with a scared look on his face that reminded Harriet of someone, though she couldn’t think who. 

“Spit it out,” said Ronnie, watching him. 

Harriet suddenly realized who Jerry looked like. He was rocking backward and forward slightly in his chair, exactly like Dobby did when he was teetering on the edge of revealing forbidden information. 

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Jerry mumbled, carefully not looking at Harriet. 

“What is it?” said Harriet. 

Jerry looked as though he couldn’t find the right words. 

“What?” said Ronnie. 

Jerry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Harriet leaned forward and spoke quietly, so that only Jerry and Ronnie could hear her. 

“Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have you seen something? Someone acting oddly?” 

Jerry drew a deep breath and, at that precise moment, Penelope Prewett appeared, looking tired and wan. 

“If you’ve finished eating, I’ll take that seat, Jerry. I’m starving, I’ve only just come off patrol duty.” 

Jerry jumped up as though his chair had just been electrified, gave Penelope a fleeting, frightened look, and scampered away. Penelope sat down and grabbed a mug from the center of the table. 

“Penelope!” said Ronnie angrily. “He was just about to tell us something important!” 

Halfway through a gulp of tea, Penelope choked. 

“What sort of thing?” she said, coughing. 

“I just asked him if he’d seen anything odd, and he started to say—” 

“Oh—that—that’s nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets,” said Penelope at once. 

“How do you know?” said Ronnie, her eyebrows raised. 

“Well, er, if you must know, Jerry, er, walked in on me the other day when I was—well, never mind—the point is, he spotted me doing something and I, um, I asked him not to mention it to anybody. I must say, I did think he’d keep his word. It’s nothing, really, I’d just rather—”

Harriet had never seen Penelope look so uncomfortable. 

“What were you doing, Penelope?” said Ronnie, grinning. “Go on, tell us, we won’t laugh.” Penelope didn’t smile back. 

“Pass me those rolls, Harriet, I’m starving.” 

Harriet knew the whole mystery might be solved tomorrow without their help, but she wasn’t about to pass up a chance to speak to Mervin if it turned up—and to her delight it did, midmorning, when they were being led to History of Magic by Gillian Lockhart. 

Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all danger had passed, only to be proved wrong right away, was now wholeheartedly convinced that it was hardly worth the trouble to see them safely down the corridors. Her hair wasn’t as sleek as usual; it seemed she had been up most of the night, patrolling the fourth floor. 

“Mark my words,” she said, ushering them around a corner. “The first words out of those poor Petrified people’s mouths will be ‘It was Hagrid.’ Frankly, I’m astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these security measures are necessary.” 

“I agree, ma’am,” said Harriet, making Ronnie drop her books in surprise. 

“Thank you, Harriet,” said Lockhart graciously while they waited for a long line of Hufflepuffs to pass. “I mean, we teachers have quite enough to be getting on with, without walking students to classes and standing guard all night…” 

“That’s right,” said Ronnie, catching on. “Why don’t you leave us here, ma’am, we’ve only got one more corridor to go—” 

“You know, Prewett, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I really should go and prepare my next class—” 

And she hurried off. 

“Prepare her class,” Ronnie sneered after her. “Gone to curl her hair, more like.” 

They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of them, then darted down a side passage and hurried off toward Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. But just as they were congratulating each other on their brilliant scheme— 

“Evans! Prewett! What are you doing?” 

It was Professor McGonagall, and his mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. 

“We were—we were ” Ronnie stammered. “We were going to—to go and see—” 

“Hermes,” said Harriet. Ronnie and Professor McGonagall both looked at her. 

“We haven’t seen him for ages, Professor,” Harriet went on hurriedly, treading on Ronnie’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell him the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry—”

Professor McGonagall was still staring at her, and for a moment, Harriet thought he was going to explode, but when he spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. 

“Of course,” he said, and Harriet, amazed, saw a tear glistening in his beady eye. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends of those who have been… I quite understand. Yes, Evans, of course you may visit Mr. Granger. I will inform Professor Binns where you’ve gone. Tell Master Pomfrey I have given my permission.” 

Harriet and Ronnie walked away, hardly daring to believe that they’d avoided detention. As they turned the corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall blow his nose. 

“That,” said Ronnie fervently, “was the best story you’ve ever come up with.” 

They had no choice now but to go to the hospital wing and tell Master Pomfrey that they had Professor McGonagall’s permission to visit Hermes. 

Master Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly. 

“There’s just no point talking to a Petrified person,” he said, and they had to admit he had a point when they’d taken their seats next to Hermes. It was plain that Hermes didn’t have the faintest inkling that he had visitors, and that they might just as well tell his bedside cabinet not to worry for all the good it would do. 

“Wonder if he did see the attacker, though?” said Ronnie, looking sadly at Hermes’ rigid face. “Because if he sneaked up on them all, no one’ll ever know…” 

But Harriet wasn’t looking at Hermes’ face. She was more interested in his right hand. It lay clenched on top of his blankets, and bending closer, she saw that a piece of paper was scrunched inside his fist. 

Making sure that Master Pomfrey was nowhere near, she pointed this out to Ronnie. 

“Go on and get it out,” Ronnie whispered, shifting her chair so that she blocked Harriet from Master Pomfrey’s view. 

It was no easy task. Hermes’ hand was clamped so tightly around the paper that Harriet was sure she was going to tear it. While Ronnie kept watch she tugged and twisted, and at last, after several tense minutes, the paper came free. 

It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harriet smoothed it out eagerly and Ronnie leaned close to read it, too.

“Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.”

And beneath this, a single word had been written, in a hand Harriet recognized as Hermes’. Pipes. 

It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on in her brain. 

“Ronnie,” she breathed. “This is it. This is the answer. The monster in the Chamber’s a basilisk—a giant serpent! That’s why I’ve been hearing that voice all over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It’s because I understand Parseltongue…” 

Harriet looked up at the beds around her. 

“The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no one’s died—because no one looked it straight in the eye. Colette saw it through her camera. The basilisk burned up all the film inside it, but Colette just got Petrified. Justine… Justine must’ve seen the basilisk through Nearly Headless Nick! Nick got the full blast of it, but he couldn’t die again… and Hermes and that Ravenclaw prefect were found with a mirror next to them. Hermes had just realized the monster was a basilisk. I bet you anything he warned the first person he met to look around corners with a mirror first! And that girl pulled out her mirror—and—” 

Ronnie’s jaw had dropped. 

“And Mr. Norris?” she whispered eagerly. 

Harriet thought hard, picturing the scene on the night of Halloween. 

“The water…” she said slowly. “The flood from Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. I bet you Mr. Norris only saw the reflection…” 

She scanned the page in her hand eagerly. The more she looked at it, the more it made sense. 

“‘…The crowing of the rooster… is fatal to it!’” she read aloud. “Hagrid’s roosters were killed! The Heir of Slytherin didn’t want one anywhere near the castle once the Chamber was opened! ‘Spiders flee before it!’ It all fits!”

“But how’s the basilisk been getting around the place?” said Ronnie. “A giant snake… Someone would’ve seen…” 

Harriet, however, pointed at the word Hermes had scribbled at the foot of the page. 

“Pipes,” she said. “Pipes… Ronnie, it’s been using the plumbing. I’ve been hearing that voice inside the walls…” 

Ronnie suddenly grabbed Harriet’s arm. 

“The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!” she said hoarsely. “What if it’s a bathroom? What if it’s in—” 

“Moaning Mervin’s bathroom,” said Harriet. 

They sat there, excitement coursing through them, hardly able to believe it. 

“This means,” said Harriet, “I can’t be the only Parselmouth in the school. The Heir of Slytherin’s one, too. That’s how he’s been controlling the basilisk.” 

“What’re we going to do?” said Ronnie, whose eyes were flashing. “Should we go straight to McGonagall?” 

“Let’s go to the staff room,” said Harriet, jumping up. “He’ll be there in ten minutes. It’s nearly break.” 

They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered hanging around in another corridor, they went straight into the deserted staff room. It was a large, paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs. Harriet and Ronnie paced around it, too excited to sit down. 

But the bell to signal break never came. 

Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor McGonagall’s voice, magically magnified. 

“All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.” 

Harriet wheeled around to stare at Ronnie. 

“Not another attack? Not now?” 

“What’ll we do?” said Ronnie, aghast. “Go back to the dormitory?” 

“No,” said Harriet, glancing around. There was an ugly sort of wardrobe to her left, full of the teachers’ cloaks. “In here. Let’s hear what it’s all about. Then we can tell them what we’ve found out.” 

They hid themselves inside it, listening to the rumbling of hundreds of people moving overhead, and the staff room door banging open. From between the musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers filtering into the room. Some of them were looking puzzled, others downright scared. Then Professor McGonagall arrived. 

“It has happened,” he told the silent staff room. “A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.”

Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout clapped his hands over his mouth. Prince gripped the back of a chair very hard and said, “How can you be sure?” 

“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall, who was very white, “left another message. Right underneath the first one. ‘His skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.’” 

Professor Flitwick burst into tears. 

“Who is it?” said Master Hooch, who had sunk, weak kneed, into a chair. “Which student?” 

“Jerry Prewett,” said Professor McGonagall. 

Harriet felt Ronnie slide silently down onto the wardrobe floor beside her. 

“We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow,” said Professor McGonagall. “This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said…” 

The staff room door banged open again. For one wild moment, Harriet was sure it would be Dumbledore. But it was Lockhart, and she was beaming. 

“So sorry—dozed off—what have I missed?” 

She didn’t seem to notice that the other teachers were looking at her with something remarkably like hatred. Prince stepped forward. 

“Just the woman,” she said. “The very woman. A boy has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last.” 

Lockhart blanched. 

“That’s right, Gillian,” chipped in Professor Sprout. “Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?” 

“I—well, I—” sputtered Lockhart. 

“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?” piped up Professor Flitwick. 

“D-did I? I don’t recall—” 

“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested,” said Prince. “Didn’t you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given a free rein from the first?” 

Lockhart stared around at her stony faced colleagues. 

“I—I really never—you may have misunderstood—” 

“We’ll leave it to you, then, Gillian,” said Professor McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We’ll make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last.” 

Lockhart gazed desperately around her, but nobody came to the rescue. She didn’t look remotely handsome anymore. Her lip was trembling, and in the absence of her usually toothy grin, she looked weak chinned and feeble.

“V-very well,” she said. “I’ll—I’ll be in my office, getting—getting ready.” 

And she left the room. 

“Right,” said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils were flared, “that’s got her out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories.” 

The teachers rose and left, one by one. 

It was probably the worst day of Harriet’s entire life. She, Ronnie, Frankie, and Georgina sat together in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, unable to say anything to each other. Penelope wasn’t there. She had gone to send an owl to Mr. and Mrs. Prewett, then shut herself up in her dormitory. 

No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had Gryffindor Tower ever been so crowded, yet so quiet. Near sunset, Frankie and Georgina went up to bed, unable to sit there any longer. 

“He knew something, Harriet,” said Ronnie, speaking for the first time since they had entered the wardrobe in the staff room. “That’s why he was taken. It wasn’t some stupid thing about Penelope at all. He’d found out something about the Chamber of Secrets. That must be why he was—” Ronnie rubbed her eyes frantically. “I mean, he was a pureblood. There can’t be any other reason.” 

Harriet could see the sun sinking, blood red, below the skyline. This was the worst she had ever felt. If only there was something they could do. Anything. 

“Harriet,” said Ronnie. “D’you think there’s any chance at all he’s not—you know—” 

Harriet didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t see how Jerry could still be alive. 

“D’you know what?” said Ronnie. “I think we should go and see Lockhart. Tell her what we know. She’s going to try and get into the Chamber. We can tell her where we think it is, and tell her it’s a basilisk in there.” 

Because Harriet couldn’t think of anything else to do, and because she wanted to be doing something, she agreed. The Gryffindors around them were so miserable, and felt so sorry for the Prewett’s, that nobody tried to stop them as they got up, crossed the room, and left through the portrait hole.

Darkness was falling as they walked down to Lockhart’s office. There seemed to be a lot of activity going on inside it. They could hear scraping, thumps, and hurried footsteps. 

Harriet knocked and there was a sudden silence from inside. Then the door opened the tiniest crack and they saw one of Lockhart’s eyes peering through it. 

“Oh—Miss Evans—Miss Prewett—” she said, opening the door a bit wider. “I’m rather busy at the moment—if you would be quick—” 

“Professor, we’ve got some information for you,” said Harriet. “We think it’ll help you.” 

“Er—well—it’s not terribly—” The side of Lockhart’s face that they could see looked very uncomfortable. “I mean—well all right—” 

She opened the door and they entered. 

Her office had been almost completely stripped. Two large trunks stood open on the floor. Robes, jade green, lilac, midnight blue, had been hastily folded into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into the other. The photographs that had covered the walls were now crammed into boxes on the desk. 

“Are you going somewhere?” said Harriet. 

“Er, well, yes,” said Lockhart, ripping a life size poster of herself from the back of the door as she spoke and starting to roll it up. “Urgent call—unavoidable—got to go—” 

“What about my brother?” said Ronnie jerkily. 

“Well, as to that—most unfortunate—” said Lockhart, avoiding their eyes as she wrenched open a drawer and started emptying the contents into a bag. “No one regrets more than I—” 

“You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!” said Harriet. “You can’t go now! Not with all the Dark stuff going on here!” 

“Well—I must say—when I took the job—” Lockhart muttered, now piling socks on top of her robes. “nothing in the job description—didn’t expect—” 

“You mean you’re running away?” said Harriet disbelievingly. “After all that stuff you did in your books—” 

“Books can be misleading,” said Lockhart delicately. 

“You wrote them!” Harriet shouted.

“My dear boy,” said Lockhart, straightening up and frowning at Harriet. “Do use your common sense. My books wouldn’t have sold half as well if people didn’t think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did save a village from werewolves. He’d look dreadful on the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch who banished the Bandon Banshee had a harelip. I mean, come on—” 

“So you’ve just been taking credit for what a load of other people have done?” said Harriet incredulously. 

“Harriet, Harriet,” said Lockhart, shaking her head impatiently, “it’s not nearly as simple as that. There was work involved. I had to track these people down. Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so they wouldn’t remember doing it. If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, it’s been a lot of work, Harriet. It’s not all book signings and publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you have to be prepared for a long hard slog.” 

She banged the lids of her trunks shut and locked them. 

“Let’s see,” she said. “I think that’s everything. Yes. Only one thing left.” 

She pulled out her wand and turned to them. 

“Awfully sorry, girls, but I’ll have to put a Memory Charm on you now. Can’t have you blabbing my secrets all over the place. I’d never sell another book—” 

Harriet reached her wand just in time. Lockhart had barely raised hers, when Harriet bellowed, “Expelliarmus!” 

Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over her trunk; her wand flew high into the air; Ronnie caught it, and flung it out of the open window. 

“Shouldn’t have let Professor Prince teach us that one,” said Harriet furiously, kicking Lockhart’s trunk aside. Lockhart was looking up at her, feeble once more. Harriet was still pointing her wand at her. 

“What d’you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I don’t know where the Chamber of Secrets is. There’s nothing I can do.” 

“You’re in luck,” said Harriet, forcing Lockhart to her feet at wandpoint. “We think we know where it is. And what’s inside it. Let’s go.” 

They marched Lockhart out of her office and down the nearest stairs, along the dark corridor where the messages shone on the wall, to the door of Moaning Mervin’s bathroom. 

They sent Lockhart in first. Harriet was pleased to see that she was shaking.

Moaning Mervin was sitting on the tank of the end toilet. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he said when he saw Harriet. “What do you want this time?” 

“To ask you how you died,” said Harriet. 

Mervin’s whole aspect changed at once. He looked as though he had never been asked such a flattering question. 

“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” he said with relish. “It happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I’d hidden because Oliver Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then—” Mervin swelled importantly, his face shining. “I died.” 

“How?” said Harriet. 

“No idea,” said Mervin in hushed tones. “I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away…” He looked dreamily at Harriet. “And then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Oliver Hornby, you see. Oh, he was sorry he’d ever laughed at my glasses.” 

“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harriet. 

“Somewhere there,” said Mervin, pointing vaguely toward the sink in front of his toilet. 

Harriet and Ronnie hurried over to it. Lockhart was standing well back, a look of utter terror on her face. 

It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every inch of it, inside and out, including the pipes below. And then Harriet saw it: Scratched on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake. 

“That tap’s never worked,” said Mervin brightly as she tried to turn it. 

“Harriet,” said Ronnie. “Say something. Something in Parseltongue.” 

“But—” Harriet thought hard. The only times she’d ever managed to speak Parseltongue were when she’d been faced with a real snake. She stared hard at the tiny engraving, trying to imagine it was real. 

“Open up,” she said. 

She looked at Ronnie, who shook her head. 

“English,” she said. 

Harriet looked back at the snake, willing herself to believe it was alive. If she moved her head, the candlelight made it look as though it were moving. 

“Open up,” she said. 

Except that the words weren’t what she heard; a strange hissing had escaped her, and at once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

Harriet heard Ronnie gasp and looked up again. She had made up her mind what she was going to do. 

“I’m going down there,” she said. 

She couldn’t not go, not now they had found the entrance to the Chamber, not if there was even the faintest, slimmest, wildest chance that Jerry might be alive. 

“Me too,” said Ronnie. 

There was a pause. 

“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart, with a shadow of her old smile. “I’ll just—” 

She put her hand on the door knob, but Ronnie and Harriet both pointed their wands at her. 

“You can go first,” Ronnie snarled. 

White faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the opening. 

“Girls,” she said, her voice feeble. “Girls, what good will it do?” 

Harriet jabbed her in the back with her wand. Lockhart slid her legs into the pipe. 

“I really don’t think—” she started to say, but Ronnie gave him a push, and she slid out of sight. Harriet followed quickly. She lowered herself slowly into the pipe, then let go. 

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. She could see more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward, and she knew that she was falling deeper below the school than even the dungeons. Behind her she could hear Ronnie, thudding slightly at the curves. 

And then, just as she had begun to worry about what would happen when she hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and she shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in. Lockhart was getting to her feet a little ways away, covered in slime and white as a ghost. Harriet stood aside as Ronnie came whizzing out of the pipe, too. 

“We must be miles under the school,” said Harriet, her voice echoing in the black tunnel. 

“Under the lake, probably,” said Ronnie, squinting around at the dark, slimy walls. 

All three of them turned to stare into the darkness ahead. 

“Lumos!” Harriet muttered to her wand and it lit again. “C’mon,” she said to Ronnie and Lockhart, and off they went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the wet floor.

The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a little distance ahead. Their shadows on the wet walls looked monstrous in the wandlight. 

“Remember,” Harriet said quietly as they walked cautiously forward, “any sign of movement, close your eyes right away…” 

But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first unexpected sound they heard was a loud crunch as Ronnie stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull. Harriet lowered her wand to look at the floor and saw that it was littered with small animal bones. Trying very hard not to imagine what Jerry might look like if they found him, Harriet led the way forward, around a dark bend in the tunnel. 

“Harriet—there’s something up there—” said Ronnie hoarsely, grabbing Harriet’s shoulder. 

They froze, watching. Harriet could just see the outline of something huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn’t moving. 

“Maybe it’s asleep,” she breathed, glancing back at the other two. Lockhart’s hands were pressed over her eyes. Harriet turned back to look at the thing, her heart beating so fast it hurt. 

Very slowly, her eyes as narrow as she could make them and still see, Harriet edged forward, her wand held high. 

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must have been twenty feet long at least. 

“Blimey,” said Ronnie weakly. 

There was a sudden movement behind them. Gillian Lockhart’s knees had given way. 

“Get up,” said Ronnie sharply, pointing her wand at Lockhart. 

Lockhart got to her feet—then she dived at Ronnie, knocking her to the ground. 

Harriet jumped forward, but too late—Lockhart was straightening up, panting, Ronnie’s wand in her hand and a gleaming smile back on her face. 

“The adventure ends here, girls!” she said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the boy, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of his mangled body—say good bye to your memories!” 

She raised Ronnie’s Spellotaped wand high over her head and yelled, “Obliviate!” 

The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb. Harriet flung her arms over her head and ran, slipping over the coils of snake skin, out of the way of great chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the floor. Next moment, she was standing alone, gazing at a solid wall of broken rock.

“Ronnie!” she shouted. “Are you okay? Ronnie!” 

“I’m here!” came Ronnie’s muffled voice from behind the rockfall. “I’m okay—this git’s not, though—she got blasted by the wand—” 

There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” It sounded as though Ronnie had just kicked Lockhart in the shins. 

“What now?” Ronnie’s voice said, sounding desperate. “We can’t get through—it’ll take ages…” 

Harriet looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks had appeared in it. She had never tried to break apart anything as large as these rocks by magic, and now didn’t seem a good moment to try—what if the whole tunnel caved in? 

There was another thud and another “ow!” from behind the rocks. They were wasting time. Jerry had already been in the Chamber of Secrets for hours… Harriet knew there was only one thing to do. 

“Wait there,” she called to Ronnie. “Wait with Lockhart. I’ll go on… If I’m not back in an hour…” 

There was a very pregnant pause. 

“I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ronnie, who seemed to be trying to keep her voice steady. “So you can—can get back through. And, Harriet—” 

“See you in a bit,” said Harriet, trying to inject some confidence into her shaking voice. 

And she set off alone past the giant snake skin. 

Soon the distant noise of Ronnie straining to shift the rocks was gone. The tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Harriet’s body was tingling unpleasantly. She wanted the tunnel to end, yet dreaded what she’d find when it did. And then, at last, as she crept around yet another bend, she saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds. 

Harriet approached, her throat very dry. There was no need to pretend these stone snakes were real; their eyes looked strangely alive. 

She could guess what she had to do. She cleared her throat, and the emerald eyes seemed to flicker. 

“Open,” said Harriet, in a low, faint hiss. 

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harriet, shaking from head to foot, walked inside.


	17. The Heir of Slytherin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

She was standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. Her heart beating very fast, Harriet stood listening to the chill silence. Could the basilisk be lurking in a shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was Jerry?

She pulled out her wand and moved forward between the serpentine columns, Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. She kept her eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following her. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, she thought she saw one stir.

Then, as she drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

Harriet had to crane her nick to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkey like, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous grey feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black robed figure with flaming red hair.

"Jerry!" Harriet muttered, sprinting to him and dropped to her knees. "Jerry - don't be dead - please don't be dead-"

She flung her wand aside, grabbed Jerry's shoulders, and turned him over. His face was white as marble, and as cold, yet his eyes were closed, so he wasn't Petrified. But then he must be-

"Jerry, please wake up," Harriet muttered desperately, shaking him. Jerry's head lolled hopelessly from side to side.

"He won't wake," said a soft voice.

Harriet jumped and spun around on her knees.

A tall, black haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harriet were looking at him through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him- 

"Tom - Tom Riddle?"

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harriet's face.

"What d'you mean, he won't wake?" Harriet said desperately. "He's not - he's not-?"

"He's still alive," said Riddle, "But only just."

Harriet stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird, misty light shining about him, not a day older than sixteen.

"Are you a ghost?" Harriet said uncertainly.

"A memory," said Riddle quietly. "Preserved in a diary for fifty years."

He pointed toward the floor near the statue's giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harriet had found in Moaning Mervin's bathroom. For a second, Harriet wondered how it had got there - but there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"You've got to help me, Tom," Harriet said, raising Jerry's head again. "We've got to get him out of here. There's a basilisk... I don't know where it is, but it could be along any moment... Please, help me."

Riddle didn't move. Harriet, sweating, managed to hoist Jerry half off the floor, and bent to pick up her wand again.

But her wand had gone.

"Did you see-?"

She looked up. Riddle was still watching her - twirling Harriet's wand between him long fingers.

"Thanks," said Harriet, stretching out her hand for it.

A smile curled the corners of Riddle's mouth. He continued to stare at Harriet, twirling the wand idly.

"Listen," said Harriet urgently, her knees sagging with Jerry's dead weight. "We've got to go! If the basilisk comes-"

"It won't come until it is called," said Riddle calmly.

Harriet lowered Jerry back onto the floor, unable to her him up any longer.

"What d'you mean?" she said. "Look, give me my wand, I might need it-"

Riddle's smile broadened.

"You won't be needing it," he said.

Harriet stared at him.

"What d'you mean, I won't be-?"

"I've waited a long time for this, Harriet Evans," said Riddle. "For the chance to see you. To speak to you."

"Look," said Harriet, losing patience, "I don't think you get it. We're in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later-"

"We're going to talk now," said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he pocketed Harriet's wand.

Harriet stared at her. There was something very funny going on here.

"How did Jerry get like this?" she asked slowly.

"Well, that's an interesting question," said Riddle pleasantly. "And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Jerry Prewett's like this is because he opened his heart and spilled all his secrets to an invisible stranger."

"What are you talking about?" said Harriet.

"The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. Little Jerry's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all his pitiful worries and woes - how his sisters tease him, how he has to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how" - Riddle's eyes glinted - "how he didn't think famous, good, great Harriet Evans would ever like him..."

All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harriet's face. There was an almost hungry look in them.

"It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven year old boy," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Jerry simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket.."

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harriet's neck.

"If I say it myself, Harriet, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Jerry poured out his soul to me, and his soul happened to be exactly what I wanted... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of his deepest fears, his darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Mister Prewett. Powerful enough to start feeding Mister Prewett a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her..."

"What d'you mean?" said Harriet, whose mouth had gone very dry.

"Haven't you guessed yet, Harriet Evans?" said Riddle softly. "Jerry Prewett opened the Chamber of Secrets. He strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. He set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat."

"No," Harriet whispered.

"Yes," said Riddle, calmly. "Of course, he didn't know what he was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen his new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... Dear Tom," he recited, watching Harriet's horrified face, "I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Penelope keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think she suspects me... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!"

Harriet's fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into her palms.

"It took a very long time for stupid little Jerry to stop trusting his diary," said Riddle. "But he finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And that's where you came in, Harriet, You found it, and I couldn't have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet..."

"And why did you want to meet me?" said Harriet. Anger was coursing through her, and it was an effort to keep her voice steady.

"Well, you see, Jerry told me all about you, Harriet," said Riddle, "Your whole fascinating history." His eyes roved over the lightning scar on Harriet's forehead, and his expression grew hungrier. "I know I must find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust-"

"Hagrid's my friend," said Harriet, her voice now shaking. "And you framed her, didn't you? I thought you made a mistake, but-"

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

"It was my word against Hagrid's, Harriet. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student... on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under her bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls.. but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked. I though someone must realise that Hagrid couldn't possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance... as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power! 

"Only the transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. She persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train her as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed... Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did..."

"I bet Dumbledore saw right through you," said Harriet, her teeth gritted.

"Well, she certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled," said Riddle carelessly. "I knew it wouldn't be safe to open the Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn't going to waste those long years I'd spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving me sixteen year old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work."

"Well, you haven't finished it," said Harriet triumphantly, "No one's died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right again-"

"Haven't I already told you," said Riddle, quietly, "that killing Mudbloods doesn't matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has been - you."

Harriet stared at him.

"Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was opened, it was Jerry who was writing to me, not you. He saw you with the diary, you see, and panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I repeated all his secrets to you? What if, even worse, I told you who'd been strangling roosters? So the foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin's heir. From everything Jerry had told me about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery - particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Jerry had told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue...

"So I made Jerry write his own farewell on the wall and come down her to wait. He struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn't much life left in him... He put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last... I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I know you'd come. I have many questions for you, Harriet Evans."

"Like what?" Harriet spat, fists still clenched.

"Well," said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, "how is it that you a skinny girl with no extraordinary magical talent - managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?" There was an odd red gleam in his eyes now.

"Why do you care how I escaped?" said Harriet slowly. "Voldemort was after your time..."

"Voldemort," said Riddle softly, "is my past, present, and future, Harriet Evans..."

He pulled Harriet's wand from his pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

TOM MORLOVA RIDDLE

The he waved the wand once, and the letter of his name rearranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"You see?" he whispered, "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle mother's name forever? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me when I was born, just because she found out her husband was a wizard? No, Harriet - I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

Harriet's brain seemed to have jammed. She stared numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned girl who had grown up to murder Harriet's own parents and so many others... At last she forced herself to speak.

"You're not," she said, her quiet voice full of hatred.

"Not what?" snapped Riddle.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," said Harriet, breathing fast. "Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest sorcerer in the world is Ariana Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn't dare try and take over Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and she still frightens you now, wherever you're hiding these days-" the smile had gone from Riddle's face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.

"Dumbledore's been driven out of thus castle by the mere memory of me!" he hissed.

"She's not as gone as you might think!" Harriet retorted. She was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true.

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. I was eerie, spine tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harriet's scalp and made her heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harriet felt it vibrating inside her own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock's and gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged bundle.

A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harriet. It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at her feet, then landed heavily on her shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harriet looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden beak and beady black eye.

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harriet's cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.

"That's a phoenix," said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.

"Fawkes?" Harriet breathed, and she felt the bird's golden claws squeeze her shoulder gently.

"And that-" said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes has dropped, "that's the old school Sorting Hat-"

So it was. Patched, frayed and dirty, the hat lay motionless at Harriet's feet.

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles were laughing at once.

"This is what Dumbledore sends her defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harriet Evans? Do you feel safe now?"

Harriet didn't answer. She might not see what use Fawkes or the Sorting Hat were, but she was no longer alone, and she waited for Riddle to stop laughing with her courage mounting.

"To business, Harriet," said Riddle, still smiling broadly. "Twice - in your past, in my future - we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk," he added softly, "the longer you stay alive."

Harriet was thinking fast, weighing her chances. Riddle had the wand. She, Harriet, had Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, neither of which would be much good in a duel. It looked bad, all right but the longer Riddle stood there, the more life was dwindling out of Jerry... and in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle's outline was becoming clearer, more solid... If it had to be a fight between her and Riddle, better sooner than later.

"No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me," said Harriet abruptly. "I don't know myself. But I know why you couldn't kill me. Because my father died to save me. My common Muggle-born father," she added, shaking with suppressed rage. "He stopped you killing me. And I've seen the real you, I saw you last year. You're a wreck. You're barely alive. That's where all your power got you. You're in hiding. You're ugly, you're foul-"

Riddle's face contorted. Then he forced it into an awful smile. "So. Your father died to save you. Yes, that's powerful counter charm. I can see now... there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike... But after all, it was merely a luck chance that saved you from me. That's all I wanted to know."

Harriet stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise her wand. But Riddle's twisted smile was widening again.

"Now, Harriet, I'm going to teach you a little lesson. Let's match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harriet Evans, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give her..."

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked away. Harriet, fear spreading up her numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half darkness. Riddle opened his moth wide and hissed - but Harriet understood what he was saying...

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

Harriet wheeled around to look up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on her shoulder.

Slytherin's gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Harriet saw his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.

And something was stirring inside the statue's mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths.

Harriet backed away until she hit the Chamber wall, and as she shut her eyes tight she felt Fawkes' wing sweep her cheek as he took flight. Harriet wanted to shout, "Don't leave me!" but what chance did a phoenix have against the king of serpents?

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harriet felt it shudder - she knew what was happening, she could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin's mouth. Then she hear Riddle's hissing voice:

"Kill him."

The basilisk was moving toward Harriet; she could hear its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harriet began to run blindly sideways, her hands outstretched, feeling her way - Voldemort was laughing...

Harriet tripped, She fell hard onto the stone and tasted blood. The serpent was barely feet from her, she could hear it coming.

There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above her, and then something heavy hit Harriet so hard that she was smashed into the wall. Waiting for fangs to sink through her body, she heard more mad hissing, something thrashing wildly off the pillars.

She couldn't help it - she opened her eyes wide enough to squint at what was going on.

The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars. As Harriet trembled, ready to close her eyes if it turned, she saw what has distracted the snake.

Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk was snapping furiously at him with fangs long and thin as sabers.

Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake's tail thrashed, narrowly missing Harriet, and before Harriet could shut her eyes, it turned - Harriet looked straight into its face and saw that its eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been punctured by the phoenix, blood was streaming to the floor, and the snake was spitting in agony.

"NO!" Harriet heard Riddle screaming. "LEAVE THE BIRD! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM. KILL HIM!"

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was circling its head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the blood poured from its ruined eyes.

"Help me, help me," Harriet muttered wildly, "someone - anyone!"

The snake's tail whipped across the floor again. Harriet ducked. Something soft hit her face.

The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harriet's arms. Harriet seized it. It was all she had left, her only chance - she rammed it onto her head and threw herself flat on the floor as the basilisk's tail swung over her again.

Help me - help me - Harriet thought, her eyes screwed tight under the hat. Please help me!

There was no answering voice. Instead, the hat contracted, as though an invisible hand was squeezing it very tightly.

Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top of Harriet's head, almost knocking her out. Stars winking in front of her eyes, she grabbed the top of the hat to pull it off and felt something long and hard beneath it.

A gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat, its handle glittering with rubies the size of eggs.

"KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. SNIFF - SMELL HIM."

Harriet was on her feet, ready. The basilisk's head was falling, its body coiling around, hitting pillars as it twisted to face her. She could see the vast, bloody eye sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough to swallow her whole, lined with fangs long as his sword, thin, glittering, venomous...

It lunged blindly. Harriet dodged and it hit the Chamber wall. It lunged again, and its forked tongue lashed Harriet's side. She raised the sword in both her hands.

The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was true - Harriet threw her whole weigh behind the sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof of the serpent's mouth-

But as warm blood drenched Harriet's arms, she felt a searing pain just above her elbow. One long, poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into her arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over sideways and fell, twitching, to the floor.

Harriet slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that was spreading poison through her body and wrenched it out of her arm. But she knew it was too late. White hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from the wound. Even as she dropped the fang and watched her won blood soaking her robes, her vision went foggy. The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of dull colour.

A patch of scarlet swan past, and Harriet heard a soft clatter of claws beside her.

"Fawkes," said Harriet thickly. "You were fantastic, Fawkes..."

She felt the bird lay its beautiful head on the spot where the serpent's fang had pierced her.

She could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark shadow moved in front of her.

"You're dead, Harriet Evans," said Riddle's voice above her. "Dead. Even Dumbledore's bird knows it. Do you see what he's doing, Evans? He's crying."

Harriet blinked. Fawkes' head slid in and out of focus. Thick, pearly tears were trickling down the glossy feathers.

"I'm going to sit here and watch you die, Harriet Evans. Take you time, I'm in no hurry."

Harriet felt drowsy. Everything around her seemed to be spinning.

"So ends the famous Harriet Evans," said Riddle's distant voice. "Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by her friends, defeated at last by the Dark Lord she so unwisely challenged. You'll be back with you dear Mudblood father soon, Harriet... He bought you twelves years of borrowed time... but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must..."

If this is dying, thought Harriet, it's not so bad.

Even the pain was leaving her...

But was this dying? Instead of going black, the Chamber seemed to be coming back into focus. Harriet gave her head a little shake and there was Fawkes, still resting his head on Harriet's arm. A pearly patch of tears was shining all around the wound - except that there was no wound.

"Get away, bird," said Riddle's voice suddenly. "Get away from her - I said, get away!"

Harriet raised her head. Riddle was pointing Harriet's wand at Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and scarlet.

"Phoenix tears..." said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry's arm. "Of course... healing powers... I forgot..."

He looked into Harriet's face. "But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harriet Evans... you and me..."

He raised the wand.

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and something fell into Harriet's lap - the diary.

For a split second, both Harriet and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though she had meant to do it all along, Harriet seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to her and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harriet's hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then-

He had gone. Harriet's wand fell to the floor with a clatter and there was silence. Silence except for the steady drip of ink still oozing from the diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right through it.

Shaking all over, Harriet pulled herself up. Her head was spinning as though she'd just travelled miles by Floo powder. Slowly, she gathered together her wand and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug, retrieved the glittering sword from the roof of the basilisk's mouth.

Then cam a faint moan from the end of the Chamber. Jerry was stirring. As Harriet hurried toward him, he sat up. His bemused eyes travelled from the huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harriet, in her blood soaked robes, then to the diary in her hand. He drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears began to pour down his face.

"Harriet - oh, Harriet - I tried to tell you a b-breakfast, but I c-couldn't say it in front of Penelope - it was me, Harriet - but I-I s-swear I d-didn't mean to - R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over - and - how did you kill that - that thing? W-where's Riddle? The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the diary-"

"It's all right," said Harriet, holding up the diary, and showing Jerry the fang hold, "Riddle's finished. Look! Him and the basilisk. C'mon, Jerry, let's get out of here-"

"I'm going to be expelled!" Jerry wept as Harriet helped him awkwardly to his feet. "I've looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Beth came and n-now I'll have to leave and - w-what'll mum and dad say?"

Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the Chamber entrance. Harriet urged Jerry forward; they stepped over the motionless coils of the dead basilisk, through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel. Harriet heard the stone doors close behind them with a soft hiss.

After a few minutes' progress up the dark tunnel, a distant sound of slowly shifting rock reached Harriet's ears.

"Ronnie!" Harriet yelled, speeding up. "Jerry's okay! I've got her!"

She heard Ronnie give a strangled cheer, and they turned the next bend to see her eager face staring through the sizable gap she had managed to make in the rock fall.

"Jerry!" Ronnie thrust an arm through the gap in the rock to pull him through first. "You'res alive! I don't believe it! What happened? How - what - where did that bird come from?" Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Jerry.

"He's Dumbledore's," said Harriet, squeezing through herself.

"How come you've got a sword?" said Ronnie, gaping at the glittering weapon in Harriet's hand. 

"I'll explain when we get out of here," said Harriet with a sideways glance at Jerry, who was crying harder than ever.

"But-"

"Later," Harriet said shortly. She didn't think it was a good idea to tell Ronnie yet who'd been opening the Chamber, not in front of Jerry, anyway. "Where's Lockhart?"

"Back there," said Ronnie, still looking puzzled but jerking her head up the tunnel toward the pipe. "She's in a bad way. Come and see."

Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a soft golden glow in the darkness, they walked all the way back to the mouth of the pipe. Gillian Lockhart was sitting there, humming placidly to herself.

"Her memory's gone," said Ronnie. "The Memory Charm backfired. Hit her instead of us. Hasn't got a clue who she is, or where she is, or who we are. I told her to come and wait here. She's a danger to herself."

Lockhart peered good-naturedly up at them all.

"Hello," she said. "Odd sort of place, this, isn't it? Do you live here?"

"No," said Ronnie, raising her eyebrows at Harriet.

Harriet bent down and looked up the long, dark pipe.

"Have you though how we're going to get back up this?" she said to Ronnie.

Ronnie shook her head, but Fawkes the phoenix had swooped past Harriet and was now fluttering in front of her, his beady eyes bright in the dark. He was waving his long golden tail feathers. Harriet looked uncertainly at him.

"He look like he wants you to grab hold..." said Ronnie, looking perplexed. "But you're much too heavy for a bird to pull up there-"

"Fawkes," said Harriet. "isn't an ordinary bird." She turned quickly to the others. "We've got to hold on to each other. Jerry, grab Ronnie's hand. Professor Lockhart-"

"She means you," said Ronnie sharply to Lockhart.

"You hold Jerry's other hand-"

Harriet tucked the sword and the Sorting Hat into her belt, Ronnie took hold of the back of Harriet's robes, and Harriet reached out and took hold of Fawkes' strangely hot tail feathers.

An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through her whole body and the next second, in a rush of wings, they were flying upward through the pipe. Harriet could hear Lockhart dangling below her, saying, "Amazing! Amazing! This is just like magic!" The chilly air was whipping through Harriet's hair, and before she'd stopped enjoying the ride, it was over - all four of them were hitting the wet floor of Moaning Mervin's bathroom, and as Lockhart straightened her hat, the sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into place.

Mervin goggled at them.

"You're alive," he said blankly to Harriet.

"There's no need to sound so disappointed," she said grimly, wiping flecks of blood and slime off her glasses.

"Oh, well... I'd just been thinking... if you had died, you'd have been welcome to share my toilet," said Mervin, blushing silver.

"Urgh!" said Ronnie as they left the bathroom for the dark deserted corridor outside. "Harriet! I think Mervin's grown fond of you! You've got competition, Jerry!"

But tears were still flooding silently down Jerry's face.

"Where now?" said Ronnie, with an anxious look at Jerry. Harriet pointed.

Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the corridor. They strode after him, and moments later, found themselves outside Professor McGonagall's office.

Harriet knocked and pushed the door open.


	18. Dobby’s Reward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All rights to the story and characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

For a moment there was silence as Harriet, Ronnie, Jerry, and Lockhart stood in the doorway, covered in muck and slime and (in Harriet’s case) blood. Then there was a scream. 

“Jerry!” 

It was Mr. Prewett, who had been sitting crying in front of the fire. He leapt to his feet, closely followed by Mrs. Prewett, and both of them flung themselves on their daughter. 

Harriet, however, was looking past them. Professor Dumbledore was standing by the mantelpiece, beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who was taking great, steadying gasps, clutching his chest. Fawkes went whooshing past Harriet’s ear and settled on Dumbledore’s shoulder, just as Harriet found herself and Ronnie being swept into Mr. Prewett’s tight embrace.

“You saved him! You saved him! How did you do it?” 

“I think we’d all like to know that,” said Professor McGonagall weakly. 

Mr. Prewett let go of Harriet, who hesitated for a moment, then walked over to the desk and laid upon it the Sorting Hat, the ruby encrusted sword, and what remained of Riddle’s diary. 

Then she started telling them everything. For nearly a quarter of an hour she spoke into the rapt silence: she told them about hearing the disembodied voice, how Hermes had finally realized that she was hearing a basilisk in the pipes; how she and Ronnie had followed the spiders into the forest, that Aragog had told them where the last victim of the basilisk had died; how she had guessed that Moaning Mervin had been the victim, and that the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets might be in his bathroom… 

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall prompted her as she paused, “so you found out where the entrance was—breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along the way, I might add—but how on earth did you all get out of there alive, Evans?” 

So Harriet, her voice now growing hoarse from all this talking, told them about Fawkes’s timely arrival and about the Sorting Hat giving her the sword. But then she faltered. She had so far avoided mentioning Riddle’s diary—or Jerry. He was standing with his head against Mr. Prewett’s shoulder, and tears were still coursing silently down his cheeks. What if they expelled him? Harriet thought in panic. Riddle’s diary didn’t work anymore… How could they prove it had been he who’d made him do it all? 

Instinctively, Harriet looked at Dumbledore, who smiled faintly, the firelight glancing off her half moon spectacles. 

“What interests me most,” said Dumbledore gently, “is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Jerry, when my sources tell me he is currently in hiding in the forests of Albania.” 

Relief—warm, sweeping, glorious relief—swept over Harriet. “W-what’s that?” said Mrs. Prewett in a stunned voice. “You-Know-Who? En-enchant Jerry? But Jerry’s not… Jerry hasn’t been… has he?” 

“It was this diary,” said Harriet quickly, picking it up and showing it to Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when he was sixteen…” 

Dumbledore took the diary from Harriet and peered keenly down her long, crooked nose at its burnt and soggy pages. 

“Brilliant,” she said softly. “Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.” She turned around to the Prewetts, who were looking utterly bewildered.

“Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving the school… traveled far and wide… sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable. Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the clever, handsome boy who was once Head Boy here.” 

“But, Jerry,” said Mrs. Prewett. “What’s our Jerry got to do with—with—him?” 

“His d-diary!” Jerry sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, and he’s been w-writing back all year—” 

“Jerry!” said Mrs. Prewett, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I taught you anything. What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain? Why didn’t you show the diary to me, or your father? A suspicious object like that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic!” 

“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Jerry. “I found it inside one of the books Dad got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it—” 

“Mr. Prewett should go up to the hospital wing right away,” Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. “This has been a terrible ordeal for him. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than he have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort.” She strode over to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up,” she added, twinkling kindly down at him. “You will find that Master Pomfrey is still awake. He’s just giving out Mandrake juice—I daresay the basilisk’s victims will be waking up any moment.” 

“So Hermes is okay!” said Ronnie brightly. 

“There has been no lasting harm done, Jerry,” said Dumbledore. 

Mr. Prewett led Jerry out, and Mrs. Prewett followed, still looking deeply shaken. 

“You know, Milton,” Professor Dumbledore said thoughtfully to Professor McGonagall, “I think all this merits a good feast. Might I ask you to go and alert the kitchens?” 

“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also moving to the door. “I’ll leave you to deal with Evans and Prewett, shall I?”

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. 

He left, and Harriet and Ronnie gazed uncertainly at Dumbledore. What exactly had Professor McGonagall meant, deal with them? Surely—surely—they weren’t about to be punished? 

“I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,” said Dumbledore. 

Ronnie opened her mouth in horror. 

“Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words,” Dumbledore went on, smiling. “You will both receive Special Awards for Services to the School and—let me see—yes, I think two hundred points apiece for Gryffindor.” 

Ronnie went as brightly pink as Lockhart’s valentine flowers and closed her mouth again. 

“But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet about her part in this dangerous adventure,” Dumbledore added. “Why so modest, Gillian?” 

Harriet gave a start. She had completely forgotten about Lockhart. She turned and saw that Lockhart was standing in a corner of the room, still wearing her vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed her, Lockhart looked over her shoulder to see who she was talking to. 

“Professor Dumbledore,” Ronnie said quickly, “there was an accident down in the Chamber of Secrets. Professor Lockhart—” 

“Am I a professor?” said Lockhart in mild surprise. “Goodness. I expect I was hopeless, was I?” 

“She tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand backfired,” Ronnie explained quietly to Dumbledore. 

“Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking her head, her long silver hair quivering. “Impaled upon your own sword, Gillian!” 

“Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword. That girl has, though.” She pointed at Harriet. “She’ll lend you one.” 

“Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the infirmary, too?” Dumbledore said to Ronnie. “I’d like a few more words with Harriet…” 

Lockhart ambled out. Ronnie cast a curious look back at Dumbledore and Harriet as she closed the door. 

Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire. 

“Sit down, Harriet,” she said, and Harriet sat, feeling unaccountably nervous. 

“First of all, Harriet, I want to thank you,” said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling again. “You must have shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you.” 

She stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto her knee. Harriet grinned awkwardly as Dumbledore watched her.

“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully. “I imagine he was most interested in you…” 

Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harriet came tumbling out of her mouth. 

“Professor Dumbledore… Riddle said I’m like him. Strange likenesses, he said…” 

“Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully at Harriet from under her thick silver eyebrows. “And what do you think, Harriet?” 

“I don’t think I’m like him!” said Harriet, more loudly than she’d intended. “I mean, I’m—I’m in Gryffindor, I’m…” But she fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in her mind. 

“Professor,” she started again after a moment. “The Sorting Hat told me I’d—I’d have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin’s heir for a while… because I can speak Parseltongue…” 

“You can speak Parseltongue, Harriet,” said Dumbledore calmly, “because Lord Voldemort—who is the last remaining ancestor of Salazar Slytherin—can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I’m sure…” 

“Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?” Harriet said, thunderstruck. 

“It certainly seems so.” 

“So I should be in Slytherin,” Harriet said, looking desperately into Dumbledore’s face. “The Sorting Hat could see Slytherin’s power in me, and it—” 

“Put you in Gryffindor,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Listen to me, Harriet. You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his handpicked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue—resourcefulness—determination—a certain disregard for rules,” she added. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think.” 

“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harriet in a defeated voice, “because I asked not to go in Slytherin…” 

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, beaming once more. “Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harriet, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” Harriet sat motionless in her chair, stunned. “If you want proof, Harriet, that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely at this.” 

Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall’s desk, picked up the blood stained silver sword, and handed it to Harriet. Dully, Harriet turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then she saw the name engraved just below the hilt.

Godric Gryffindor 

“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harriet,” said Dumbledore simply. 

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in Professor McGonagall’s desk and took out a quill and a bottle of ink. 

“What you need, Harriet, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go down to the feast, while I write to Azkaban—we need our gamekeeper back. And I must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, too,” she added thoughtfully. “We’ll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher… Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don’t we?” 

Harriet got up and crossed to the door. She had just reached for the handle, however, when the door burst open so violently that it bounced back off the wall. 

Luanna Black stood there, fury in her face. And cowering behind her legs, heavily wrapped in bandages, was Dobby. 

“Good evening, Luanna,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. 

Mrs. Black almost knocked Harriet over as she swept into the room. Dobby went scurrying in after her, crouching at the hem of her cloak, a look of abject terror on her face. 

The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was attempting to finish cleaning Mrs. Black’s shoes. Apparently Mrs. Black had set out in a great hurry, for not only were her shoes half polished, but her usually sleek hair was disheveled. Ignoring the elf bobbing apologetically around her ankles, she fixed her cold eyes upon Dumbledore. 

“So!” she said. “You’ve come back. The governors suspended you, but you still saw fit to return to Hogwarts.” 

“Well, you see, Luanna,” said Dumbledore, smiling serenely, “the other eleven governors contacted me today. It was something like being caught in a hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that Arlene Prewett’s son had been killed and wanted me back here at once. They seemed to think I was the best woman for the job after all. Very strange tales they told me, too… Several of them seemed to think that you had threatened to curse their families if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.” 

Mrs. Black went even paler than usual, but her eyes were still slits of fury.

“So—have you stopped the attacks yet?” she sneered. “Have you caught the culprit?” 

“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile. 

“Well?” said Mrs. Black sharply. “Who is it?” 

“The same person as last time, Luanna,” said Dumbledore. “But this time, Lord Voldemort was acting through somebody else. By means of this diary.” 

She held up the small black book with the large hole through the center, watching Mrs. Black closely. Harriet, however, was watching Dobby. 

The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes fixed meaningfully on Harriet, he kept pointing at the diary, then at Mrs. Black, and then hitting himself hard on the head with his fist. 

“I see…” said Mrs. Black slowly to Dumbledore. 

“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still staring Mrs. Black straight in the eye. “Because if Harriet here”—Mrs. Black shot Harriet a swift, sharp look—“ and her friend Ronnie hadn’t discovered this book, why—Jerry Prewett might have taken all the blame. No one would ever have been able to prove he hadn’t acted of his own free will…” 

Mrs. Black said nothing. Her face was suddenly mask like. 

“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might have happened then… The Prewett’s are one of our most prominent pure blood families. Imagine the effect on Arlene Prewett and her Muggle Protection Act, if her own son was discovered attacking and—killing Muggle-borns… Very fortunate the diary was discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it. Who knows what the consequences might have been otherwise…” 

Mrs. Black forced himself to speak. “Very fortunate,” she said stiffly. 

And still, behind her back, Dobby was pointing, first to the diary, then to Luanna Black, then punching himself in the head. 

And Harriet suddenly understood. She nodded at Dobby, and Dobby backed into a corner, now twisting his ears in punishment. 

“Don’t you want to know how Jerry got hold of that diary, Mrs. Black?” said Harriet. 

Luanna Black rounded on her. 

“How should I know how the stupid little boy got hold of it?” She said. 

“Because you gave it to him,” said Harriet. “In Flourish and Blotts. You picked up his old Transfiguration book and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t you?” She saw Mrs. Black’s white hands clench and unclench. 

“Prove it,” she hissed.

“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at Harriet. “Not now that Riddle has vanished from the book. On the other hand, I would advise you, Luanna, not to go giving out any more of Lord Voldemort’s old school things. If any more of them find their way into innocent hands, I think Arlene Prewett, for one, will make sure they are traced back to you…” 

Luanna Black stood for a moment, and Harriet distinctly saw her right hand twitch as though she was longing to reach for her wand. Instead, she turned to her house-elf. “We’re going, Dobby!” 

She wrenched open the door and as the elf came hurrying up to her, she kicked him right through it. They could hear Dobby squealing with pain all the way along the corridor. Harriet stood for a moment, thinking hard. Then it came to her— 

“Professor Dumbledore,” she said hurriedly. “Can I give that diary back to Mrs. Black, please?” 

“Certainly, Harriet,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But hurry. The feast, remember…” 

Harriet grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office. She could hear Dobby’s squeals of pain receding around the corner. Quickly, wondering if this plan could possibly work, Harriet took off one of her shoes, pulled off her slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary into it. Then she ran down the dark corridor. 

She caught up with them at the top of the stairs. 

“Mrs. Black,” she gasped, skidding to a halt, “I’ve got something for you—” 

And she forced the smelly sock into Luanna Black’s hand. 

“What the—?” 

Mrs. Black ripped the sock off the diary, threw it aside, then looked furiously from the ruined book to Harriet. 

“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harriet Evans,” she said softly. “They were meddlesome fools, too.” 

She turned to go. 

“Come, Dobby. I said, come.” 

But Dobby didn’t move. He was holding up Harriet’s disgusting, slimy sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure. 

“Master has given a sock,” said the elf in wonderment. “Master gave it to Dobby.” 

“What’s that?” spat Mrs. Black. “What did you say?” 

“Got a sock,” said Dobby in disbelief. “Master threw it, and Dobby caught it, and Dobby—Dobby is free.” 

Luanna Black stood frozen, staring at the elf. Then she lunged at Harriet. 

“You’ve lost me my servant, girl!”

But Dobby shouted, “You shall not harm Harriet Evans!” 

There was a loud bang, and Mrs. Black was thrown backward. She crashed down the stairs, three at a time, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing below. She got up, her face livid, and pulled out her wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger. 

“You shall go now,” he said fiercely, pointing down at Mrs. Black. “You shall not touch Harriet Evans. You shall go now.” 

Luanna Black had no choice. With a last, incensed stare at the pair of them, she swung her cloak around her and hurried out of sight. 

“Harriet Evans freed Dobby!” said the elf shrilly, gazing up at Harriet, moonlight from the nearest window reflected in his orb like eyes. “Harriet Evans set Dobby free!” 

“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harriet, grinning. “Just promise never to try and save my life again.” 

The elf’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide, toothy smile. 

“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harriet as Dobby pulled on Harriet’s sock with shaking hands. “You told me all this had nothing to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well—” 

“It was a clue, Miss,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as though this was obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The Dark Lord, before he changed his name, could be freely named, you see?” 

“Right,” said Harriet weakly. “Well, I’d better go. There’s a feast, and my friend Hermes should be awake by now…” 

Dobby threw his arms around Harriet’s middle and hugged her. 

“Harriet Evans is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he sobbed. “Farewell, Harriet Evans!” 

And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared. 

Harriet had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas, and the celebration lasted all night. Harriet didn’t know whether the best bit was Hermes running toward her, screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” or Justine hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to wring her hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting her, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing Harriet and Ronnie so hard on the shoulders that they were knocked into their plates of trifle, or her and Ronnie’s four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the House Cup for the second year running, or Professor McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the exams had been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!” said Hermes), or Dumbledore announcing that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to return next year, owing to the fact that she needed to go away and get her memory back. Quite a few of the teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.

“Shame,” said Ronnie, helping herself to a jam doughnut. “She was starting to grow on me.” 

The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal with only a few, small differences—Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were canceled (“but we’ve had plenty of practice at that anyway,” Ronnie told a disgruntled Hermes) and Luanna Black had been sacked as a school governor. Dahlia was no longer strutting around the school as though she owned the place. On the contrary, she looked resentful and sulky. On the other hand, Jerry Prewett was perfectly happy again. 

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the Hogwarts Express. Harriet, Ronnie, Hermes, Frankie, Georgina, and Jerry got a compartment to themselves. They made the most of the last few hours in which they were allowed to do magic before the holidays. They played Exploding Snap, set off the very last of Frankie and Georgina’s Filibuster fireworks, and practiced disarming each other by magic. Harriet was getting very good at it. 

They were almost at King’s Cross when Harriet remembered something. 

“Jerry—what did you see Penelope doing, that she didn’t want you to tell anyone?” 

“Oh, that,” said Jerry, giggling. “Well—Penelope’s got a boyfriend.” 

Frankie dropped a stack of books on Georgina’s head. 

“What?” 

“It’s that Ravenclaw prefect, Percy Clearwater,” said Jerry. “That’s who she was writing to all last summer. She’s been meeting him all over the school in secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty classroom one day. She was so upset when he was—you know—attacked. You won’t tease her, will you?” he added anxiously. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Frankie, who was looking like her birthday had come early. 

“Definitely not,” said Georgina, sniggering. 

The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped. 

Harriet pulled out her quill and a bit of parchment and turned to Ronnie and Hermes. 

“This is called a telephone number,” she told Ronnie, scribbling it twice, tearing the parchment in two, and handing it to them. “I told your mum how to use a telephone last summer—she’ll know. Call me at the Evans’, okay? I can’t stand another two months with only Diana to talk to…”

“Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won’t they?” said Hermes as they got off the train and joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted barrier. “When they hear what you did this year?” 

“Proud?” said Harriet. “Are you crazy? All those times I could’ve died, and I didn’t manage it? They’ll be furious…” 

And together they walked back through the gateway to the Muggle world.

**Author's Note:**

> Read the first book in the series: Harriet Evans and the Philosopher’s Stone -  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/20652788


End file.
